


Ever Since the Fire Went Out

by genesis30_3



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dean Winchester Deserved Better, Dean Winchester Has Internalized Homophobia, Dean Winchester Talks About Feelings, Domestic, Everybody Lives, Fix-It, Gen, Happy Ending, Home Renovations, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Finale, Road Trips, SUPERNATURAL SEASON 16, Slow Burn, alternate ending post-15x18, everybody talks about their feelings a LOT because that's my kink, finale AU, gay domestic sitcom, good things do happen, honky tonk gay bar, the cw (cas winchester) network
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 70,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27596510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genesis30_3/pseuds/genesis30_3
Summary: After the Winchesters save the world for the final time, Dean prays for months for Cas to come back, and he does—permanently human. Now, instead of facing death together, they're facing a life together. While Cas figures out how to be a person, Dean is trying to figure out what kind of person he wants to be.
Relationships: Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 64
Kudos: 252





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, relevant background info for this world: In this universe, after Cas is taken by the Empty, instead of what happens in 15x19, Dean and Sam make a deal wherein the Empty will help them destroy Chuck and expel all its trapped entities if the Winchesters will help it ensure eternal quiet. This deal sends all angels and demons back to Heaven and Hell, but shuts their gates forever to all manner of entrance but death (and all manner of exit but falling, if you're an angel). This also (somehow lmao don't ask) affects the monster population on Earth so that there are only a few nests of the classic monsters left. Jack still becomes God, and everyone who got snapped by Chuck still returns.
> 
> I wrote 15k words of this in four days and I'm still going. Please send help.

Eventually, when he’s pretty sure Cas is no longer listening, Dean starts praying again. The first time, he leaves Sam’s guest room in Sam’s house in the middle of the night and goes to church. Outside, in the Impala, he almost thinks better of it. But then he goes inside anyway.

After a thorough look-around to make sure he’s the only one inside, he picks a pew in the middle and sits down. He clears his throat, closes his eyes.

“Got your ears on, Cas?” he says. “Guess not, huh.”

Nothing happens. Not inside him or outside him. He keeps going.

“Listen, Cas, buddy. There’s some stuff I really need to—” He pauses. Folds his hands, presses them to his forehead. “There’s some stuff I should have said to you while you were here with us. I know I had years to do it, but it took me a while to get there. Boy, I’m—I’m still getting there, I think.”

For a second, just a second, he thinks he hears fluttering. He stops breathing. But then he realizes it’s just the AC kicking on.

“First of all, I’m glad you’re out of the Empty, but I’m sorry you’re trapped in Heaven. I know how you feel about your family. Rough holidays.”

He chokes out a laugh that almost turns into a sob.

“Look. After everything that happened between us, I know I don’t deserve to talk to you. I don’t even deserve to say your name. But damn if I don’t miss you, man. I miss you. So much. I _miss_ you.” He clears his throat, pauses again, listens hard to make sure there are no footsteps, no wings around. It’s less about hope and more about embarrassment. He notices that he’s tearing up. So fucking stupid. But why be embarrassed? Nobody’s listening. The most embarrassing thing is how alone he is, how pathetic, praying to an angel who used to love him but probably hates him now, has probably turned off his Winchester frequency for good.

“I really fucked up with you. I blamed you for shit you didn’t deserve to be blamed for. Rowena. Mom. Everything. And in Purgatory I said I forgive you, but that’s—that’s not enough. I know that. I shouldn’t have blamed you. I didn’t blame anybody else. I just blamed you. And that wasn’t fair. I can’t—I just expected so much of you. I thought you had all the answers, and then you didn’t, and it hurt me, so I tried to hurt you. And you never, never tried to hurt me back. You were always a better person than me. Even when you weren’t a person.”

He shifts in his seat, still not opening his eyes.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I treated you like that. And I’m sorry I didn’t say it back when you—I should have told you while you were here. I need you, okay? I need you. You know, Sam’s good, he has Eileen, and it’s good for him. I’m happy for him. But I’m starting to realize that I’m too fucked up for that kind of happiness. Fucked up for good. And the fact that I made you—” He’s crying now, fully crying. “The fact that you went away because I made you happy is fucking me up, man. It fucks with me. I didn’t make you happy. I made you fucking… suicidal. Nobody who loves me is allowed to be happy. I can’t be happy. Everyone I’ve ever loved but Sam has fucked off or died. Guess you did both. A few times each. But you always came back. Even when I didn’t deserve it. And I definitely don’t deserve it now. But please, please come back again. I know you’re not there, but I’m calling, Cas. Please.”

Nothing.

“I—I want you back, Cas. I need you back. I would do anything to have you back. I am never gonna be happy unless I get you back.”

Still nothing. He sits in the silence for a few minutes, but really it’s an hour. He heads back to Sam’s.

The next night, the same thing. He sits down. He says, “I think you changed me too, Cas. Maybe just not enough.” And then it’s too hard, so he goes back home.

The _next_ night, he doesn’t go back. But the night after that he does. He doesn’t know what else to say, but he feels compelled to talk, so he tells Cas about his day.

“I need to learn sign language if I’m gonna stay with Sam and Eileen,” he says after a few minutes of one-way small talk. Then he laughs. “ _Sam and Ei-leen_ ,” he sings. “They never think that’s funny. You wouldn’t either because you don’t know any songs. Man, I wish I’d made you listen to more music. You could have brought good taste up to the heavenly coast.”

It hurts every time. He thinks maybe it will hurt less and less as he keeps doing it, but it doesn’t. It just hurts. Wound that won’t heal because Cas isn’t here to heal it.

This goes on for several months. In the meantime, he moves out of Sam’s house and onto the old Campbell property, an old, run-down house at the edge of a suburb on the outskirts of Lawrence.

“I don’t want to be in Sammy’s way,” he tells Cas the night before he moves out. “You know, he’s got his own thing going.”

The house needs a lot of work. It’s barely livable—holes in the walls, mold in the floor. Sam tells him he can move back in while he works. Dean refuses.

“I never told you you had to leave,” says Sam.

“I know you didn’t,” Dean says. “I just had to.”

Dean starts to realize there are a lot of things he just has to do. For instance, he has to start hunting again. There’s nothing else for him. He might as well be on the road. And besides, someone needs to be on cleanup duty, mopping up all the monsters left on Earth from the closure of Heaven and Hell. There aren’t that many.

Sam can’t come. Dean didn’t expect him to. But he offers anyway.

“I can’t send you out there by yourself, Dean,” he says, his forehead tight with stress. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“Absolutely not,” Dean says. “You stay here, okay? You stay here with Eileen and you take care of each other. I’ll be all right on my own. I don’t need taking care of.” He smiles, then stops when Sam doesn’t smile back.

So then he’s on the road, praying to Cas when he can: in the car, in the hotel rooms, at the gas station, at churches when he comes across them at the right time. He tells Cas about the monsters he fights, about what he has for dinner, about Sam’s phone calls.

“Wish you were on the other end of the line,” he says one night. He means it.

* * *

A few nights later, he’s just come back from a kill at a vampire nest in North Dakota—the last one, as far as he knows—and is about to start getting ready for bed when there’s a knock at the door. He just sits there, hoping whoever it is’ll go the fuck away. They keep knocking. _Knock knock knock._ A pause. _Knock knock knock knock._

“Who is it,” Dean yells, a statement rather than a question. No answer. “I’ll shoot you with a superpowered gun.”

_Knock knock._

“Better be a damn good reason for this,” Dean grumbles as he makes his way to the door. He looks through the peephole and sees something shaped like a man. Grabs his machete off the nearest table. “Better not intrude on my four hours.”

He opens the door and squints at the man-shaped thing. At first he still can’t make out the features in the dark. Then the figure speaks. Quietly, with great tenderness, it says: “Hello, Dean.”

It sounds like Cas, but it isn’t Cas. It can’t be Cas. As Dean’s eyes adjust to the darkness outside, it looks a lot like Cas too. Looks like his hair, a little overgrown, and his big, round eyes, and his thin, concerned smile.

“No, you—” says Dean, stepping backwards, pointing a finger. “You’re dead.”

“I’ve been dead many times,” says what looks like Cas, stepping forward into the light. He’s wearing an orange t-shirt and bootcut jeans. “Also, I don’t know if ‘dead’ is the most accurate way to describe my recent tenure in Heaven. Certainly death-adjacent.”

It sounds like Cas. It really sounds like Cas. Dean swallows what threatens to be a full-blown spiral.

“How,” he says. “What? Cas?”

“I’ve recently made some changes,” says Cas, smiling his small smile again. It looks like an attempt at something. An apology, maybe.

Dean suddenly feels all his fear melt away. It’s Cas. He knows. There’s nobody else in any world that makes him feel like this.

“Well,” he says, voice still shaking slightly. “That outfit would be one major change.”

“It’s acceptable,” says Cas. “As you know, sometimes my—” He seems to think hard about the right word to use. “My recurrence on Earth can cause… nudity. This outfit was the best available alternative.”

“Uh huh,” says Dean. He realizes that his eyes and mouth are all wide open and snaps all of them shut, placing a hand on his forehead. “Nudity. Yeah. Okay, but how are you here?”

“That’s one of the changes.” His expression is grave. He steps forward again, slowly, with great measure, shoulders back but head ducked slightly forward, the way only Cas does. “I think we need to talk, Dean.”

As Cas moves closer, Dean turns around and heads towards the nearest chair. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be near Cas. He does. But he doesn’t know what any of this means—if Cas is back for good, if he’s okay, what he remembers. If he heard Dean’s prayers. Dean feels sick. He puts the machete on the ground and his face in his hands.

“All right,” he says. “Okay. Then let’s talk.”

They stare at each other.

Right as Cas opens his mouth to speak, a figure appears behind him. Dean jumps to his feet, grabbing the machete again.

“Cas!” he shouts. “Move!”

Cas turns a second too slowly. As the figure steps inside, Dean sees it’s wearing a plaid button-up, jeans, a belt with a massive buckle. One of the rancher vampires. The vampire grabs Cas by the shoulders, snarling in his face, and Cas raises his hand, grabs the guy’s forehead to smite him. Everyone freezes. Nothing happens. The vampire tosses him aside like an empty burger wrapper, and he crumples on the floor.

Dean hurtles forward, blood running hot. He isn’t sure what he’s feeling, but whatever it is, he hasn’t felt it in years. The vamp throws a hand out and scratches at him, but he ducks just in time, punching him in the stomach with all the power he can muster, machete handle packed into his fist. The vamp doubles over, groaning, and Dean elbows him in the middle of the back, taking him down to his knees. One hand holds the guy’s shoulder while the other holds the machete to his throat.

“Sorry to have to do this, man,” he says, moving the non-machete hand up to grab the guy’s hair. He slices, which is enough, but Dean doesn’t feel like it is—so he kicks him hard in the middle of the back, sending his corpse sprawling forward, then straddles the body and hacks. And hacks. And keeps hacking, as hard as he can, spraying blood across the room, until there’s absolutely no head or neck left to hack.

He kneels there for a second, chest heaving, gasping for breath.

“Dean?”

Dean wheels around, suddenly remembering that Cas is there, it’s real, not some kind of murder-induced hallucination. Cas is on the floor, sitting up with the support of one hand, blinking fast, splattered with vampire blood.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Dean says softly, nearly falling to his knees again in front of Cas. “You okay? You hurt?”

“I’m—I’m fine,” Cas says with great measure. “I hit my head.”

Dean places his hand gently on the back of Cas’s head, feeling for a wound.

“I’m fine,” Cas says again, more firmly. He stands, grunting, hands on his knees. Dean follows suit. When Cas wobbles a bit, Dean grabs him by the elbow.

“That was, uh.” Dean sniffs, rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “That was the last one of those.”

“Vampires?” Cas blinks once, tilts his head. Dean feels an ache in his chest. He missed that head tilt.

“Yeah.” He nods. “Yes. I, uh, went out for a nest on a ranch today. Thought I got ‘em all but I guess there was a straggler.”

“Oh,” says Cas, walking over to inspect the corpse. He stands over it, hands at his sides. “The end of an era, I suppose.”

“Yeah.” Dean clears his throat, still has no idea what to say. “I, uh, I was one of those one time. Got cured. Sucks for him.”

Cas turns around, looking only barely confused. He nods so slowly that it’s hard to tell he’s nodding, eyes darting around the room.

“Also,” Dean says, brandishing a finger, “also, what the hell? What happened back there? You could have helped me out a little.”

Cas is silent for a moment. He sits down cross-legged on the floor in front of the bed. Not on the bed, not in a chair. Dean looks at him, all covered in blood, having made the weirdest choice possible about where to sit, looking small and real on the ground. His chest still hurts.

“No,” he says simply. “I couldn’t have.”

Dean blinks, shakes his head slightly.

“What are you talking about, man?”

He joins Cas on the floor, just far enough away that their shoulders don’t touch, and Cas side-eyes him, somehow looking mournful and grateful at the same time.

“I’m human,” he says. “Permanently.”

“Oh,” says Dean. It makes sense: the knocking rather than appearing out of nowhere—he figures if Cas has been hanging in Heaven, he at least would have gotten his wings back—and the inability to do anything useful during a fight. The nudity and the stupid clothes. He isn’t quite sure what to say, so he says the first thing that comes to mind. “Well, ‘permanent’ doesn’t seem to mean a lot these days, whatever that’s worth.”

Cas smiles a real smile, finally.

“I suppose that’s true. But I made a choice.”

“Changes,” Dean grunts, considering. “For?”

For a moment, Cas stares forward, at the ground. Dean is about to ask if he’s okay when he looks up and says, “You.”

Dean’s head goes completely empty.

“I—I don’t know what—”

“I heard your prayers, Dean.”

Cas says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Of course he heard them. Dean fills up with guilt, with humiliation, thinks, _you weren’t supposed to hear those_. But he was supposed to hear them.

He must look ridiculous, trying to spit out words that aren’t coming, looking at Cas, every part of Cas, still trying to understand fully that he’s here. Cas places a gentle hand on his knee.

“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know I heard them. So I came back.”

“But you were in Heaven, right? You were in Heaven.”

“You know how I feel about Heaven. I wanted to be here instead.”

Dean leans back on the foot of the bed. Don’t you fucking cry, he tells himself, but he’s already crying.

“Cas,” he says. “Okay. Okay. I guess you’re right. There’s some stuff we need to talk about.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Cas repeats, eyes shifting across the room, onto the empty wall. In his lap, he squeezes his hands together.

“I want to,” says Dean. He didn’t know he was going to say it, but it feels like there’s another force taking hold of him, making him sit up, lean forward, grab Cas by the shoulder. “Cas, I meant it. All of it. Every word. Whatever I have to do to keep you here, I’ll do it. But I don’t want you doing this because you feel sorry for me.”

“What?” Cas tilts his head again. “Sorry for you?”

“Just because I’m destined to be a lonely fuck-up doesn’t mean I have to drag you down with me,” he says. “It’s hard enough not to do it to Sam. You have to do what’s right for you and I can’t—you can’t let me convince you to give it all up for me. Not anymore.”

“Dean, I chose—” Cas says, shaking his head, and then he takes a deep breath. “If I had stayed in Heaven for eternity, that wouldn’t have been my life. This is my life. I certainly deserve to make some sacrifices. But this isn’t a sacrifice. My grace has served its purpose, and I’m done with the hierarchies of the afterlife. I want to be human. Here with you. If you’ll have me.”

Dean leans back again, thinking, thinking. Cas has always liked being human, sure. Wanted it, preferred it. But he can’t want it like this, can he? To spend a short, crude life next to the man who hurt him so many times, on accident and on purpose. To give up his peace, his true happiness, whatever the fuck that means, to return to Dean Winchester like a dog and live the rest of his days on Earth in ineffectual uncertainty. Yes, Dean asked for this. Begged for this. He just didn’t think he was going to get it. He feels a throbbing in his cheek, wonders what new emotion causes that. He reaches up and touches it. Realizes he’s hurt.

“You’re bleeding,” Cas says tenderly. He raises a hand to Dean’s face, caresses it like he’s done so many times before. Nothing happens. They sit like that for a moment, just looking at each other. Cas narrows his eyes. “I forgot again.”

Dean leans forward slightly, feeling completely torn open, like all his muscles and organs are visible. Cas’s eyes widen, but he stays right where he is. Dean leans forward again. Again.

* * *

Dean doesn’t get his four hours that night. Maybe one and a half. He stays up most of the night after they dispose of the vamp’s corpse, sitting upright in a chair, staring at Cas, who is fast asleep in the motel bed. _We kissed_ , he thinks. _I kissed him_. Pretty fucked up.

It was a brief kiss, brief and difficult. Not because it was bad. Just because Dean felt like he was being electrocuted. He wondered if it was leftover angel juice making him feel that way, but he had never felt that way kissing an angel before. When he pulled away, Cas’s eyes fluttered open, looking disappointed but resolute. Dean felt guilty but he didn’t know what for. Everything, maybe.

He could see how tired Cas was—reminded himself Cas was human now. Needed sleep.

“You can have the bed,” he said, standing. “I’ll take the chair.”

“It’s your room, Dean. I should find somewhere else to sleep.” Cas stood up with great effort, crossed his arms. Nodded. Started to turn, but slowly, so mostly he was just standing there.

“Hey,” said Dean, grabbing Cas’s shoulder. He thought about his handprint. He thought about the jacket he wore the last time he saw Cas—how it was still folded up in a closet in Sam’s house, how he couldn’t bear to bring it to the new house. “You just got back. I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

Cas’s shoulder softened under his hand. He didn’t realize Cas had been so tense, and he didn’t think Cas realized it either. He was also shaking, just a little.

“Then I’ll take the chair,” Cas said.

Dean waved him off. “You kidding? I’ve slept in chairs for years. I’m good. It’s your first night officially back as a human and you deserve a good night’s sleep.”

Cas nodded.

As soon as they returned from burning the body and dumping what remained in a nearby lake, Cas got into the bed fully clothed. Dean thought about saying something and then didn’t.

Now, Cas is stirring, rolling over, making a quiet humming noise. Deans sits tall in his chair, pretending he’s fully rested and awake, though he doesn’t know why.

“Mornin’, angel,” he says, then regrets it. It used to be fine to joke around like that. Now he’s not sure if it is—what he even means by it.

Cas is unphased. As he sits up, he does the little head nod to the side that he does, his eyebrows raised, the one that means he understood your joke and is in appropriately good humor about it. Like all things Cas does, Dean had missed that nod.

“Not anymore,” he says. He shakes his head. “Sleep. So strange. I’m supposed to feel rested and I think I feel worse.”

Dean laughs, standing. “That’s how they get you.”

While Dean starts making coffee, Cas sits in silence.

“Want some?” says Dean.

“I would like that, yes,” Cas says.

More silence. The coffee machine bubbles, then clicks. Dean pours into two paper cups from the stack on the motel desk.

“So, uh.” Dean clears his throat, handing Cas his cup. “Where’d you get those clothes?”

“Mm,” says Cas, cradling his paper cup in both hands, a little hunched over. “Campers.”

Dean sits down next to him on the bed. “You steal ‘em?”

“Oh, no,” says Cas. “They were very generous.” He takes a long sip. “And very high, I think.”

Dean smiles, looks down into his own cup.

“They had extra clothes,” Cas continues. “They told me they understood my energy.”

“Well, we’d better get you some hunting clothes,” says Dean. Cas looks up at him, wide-eyed and hopeful. “I mean, if you’re gonna be sticking with me, I’m hunting, and I expect you to pull your weight, so.”

“Of course,” says Cas, downing the rest of his coffee. “Pulling my weight. Well, maybe this time I won’t be so bad at it.”

“Maybe,” says Dean, trying hard not to make a face. He knows what he’s getting into here. Cas is human, vulnerable, clumsy. But what else is he supposed to do? Leave him in the hotel room all day like a dog? “Maybe we can get you something else to wear soon.”

Cas thinks for a moment.

“I don’t have any money,” he says.

“That makes two of us,” says Dean. “We’ll figure something out. For now—well, for now maybe you can just borrow some of my clothes.” He winces as he says it, then tries to cover up the wince so Cas doesn’t see. Sharing clothes? Jesus. He stands and walks back towards the coffee maker. Turns halfway and points back at Cas. “But we’re at least gettin’ you your own underwear.”

“Sensible,” says Cas. He looks towards the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning sam is a huge normie now

For a couple weeks, it stays like this: They research, they hunt, they come back to hotel rooms with two separate beds. They don’t kiss again, don’t talk about it. Don’t talk about much of anything besides the day-to-day. Dean picks up hustling pool again for cash. He’d only budgeted enough to support himself through the trip—“budgeted” meaning that Sam just gave him the money. He and Eileen have both managed to get solid jobs pretty quickly, Sam as a paralegal and Eileen commuting to teach at the Deaf school in Olathe. Dean isn’t sure how they both managed to go real-world so quickly. How they adjusted.

Dean hadn’t been spending much anyway, had planned to give most of it back—all he really needed was gas, hotel, and supply money. He wasn’t really eating much, maybe one big, cheap meal every couple of days, and beer as often as he could swing it. Beyond that, spending was minor. But now Cas is here. Cas who needs a bed to sleep in, food in his stomach. A lot of food.

They’re at a diner, and Cas has ordered enough food for three men again, but he always eats all of it. Dean doesn’t know where he puts it.

“I very much enjoy eating,” says Cas, his mouth full of omelet. “I missed it as an angel. The taste of food. And I find that I’m hungry a great deal of the time now.”

“That’s great for you, bud,” says Dean, biting into his burger. “You probably need the energy. It’s just that we’re a little low on funds.”

Cas narrows his eyes, chews more slowly. He swallows, his face draining of excitement and vitality Dean hadn’t even noticed before it was gone.

“I see,” he says. “I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t think about the consequences for my ravenous appetite. I will… be less hungry.”

At first Dean thinks Cas is sassing him, starts to snap back. Then he realizes he’s serious.

“No, Cas,” he starts. He can’t keep making Cas feel worse. “I mean, if you’re hungry, you’re hungry. That’s how it works. We just need to figure out something else for money.”

Cas nods, then frowns.

“I can make a list of my marketable skills, but I’m not sure I have many.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, stifling a laugh. “I don’t really expect you to be the breadwinner here, Earth angel. I’ve been doing all right hustling, but that only goes so far. I mean, you can only do it so much in one place, you feel me? We need something more stable.”

“How were you supporting yourself? Men of Letters funds?”

Dean clears his throat, looks out the diner window.

“Well, uh,” he says, sucking the inside of his cheek. “No. No fund. I had a little help from Sammy.”

Cas’s face lights up at the mention of Sam. They haven’t discussed him much—Cas knew everything Dean would have updated him on from the prayers.

“Maybe…” says Cas, clearly testing the waters. “We’ll be driving through Kansas soon. Maybe we could—”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m done asking Sam for help, you know? He’s his own man, I’m my own man.”

“He cares about you, Dean,” says Cas. “You should let him care about you.”

Reflexively, Dean squeezes his burger so hard that it splits in half. He says nothing.

“He doesn’t know I’m back, does he?” Cas’s inquisitive, never-ending head tilt, his gentle eyes—aggravating.

“Have you heard me make a phone call?” Dean says, a little too harshly.

Cas turns his head down abruptly, blinking at the table. After a moment, he returns to his omelet, then moves on to his hash browns.

“I think he would be glad to hear from you,” he says between bites, not looking Dean in the eyes. “And I would be glad to see him.”

When they get back to the hotel room, Dean makes a call while Cas is in the shower. Sam picks up on the second ring.

“Hey!” he says, somewhat breathlessly. “Everything okay?”

“All good, all good,” says Dean. “Uh, pretty good, in fact.”

“Oh,” says Sam. He sounds surprised. “Well, that’s—that’s great. Hunting is smooth? Making friends?”

“Something like that,” says Dean. “Listen, I’m, uh, I’m driving by Lawrence later this week.”

“Perfect,” says Sam. It’s immediate, almost before Dean is done speaking. “We’re really excited to see you, Dean. We want to know how it’s all going.”

Dean closes his eyes, inhales deeply.

“Can’t wait to see you either, little bro.”

Sam hesitates for a second, then says, “Is that… Is someone in the shower?”

“Uh,” says Dean, suddenly panicking. “Well, it’s.”

“Making friends?” Dean can hear the shit-eating grin on Sam’s face. He grips the phone a little tighter.

“Friends,” he says, pretending hard to be annoyed. “All right, okay. I’ll see you soon.”

“Bye, dude,” Sam says. “See you soon.”

When Cas comes out of the bathroom, clothed but hair still wet, Dean says, “Stopping by Sam’s this weekend.”

“Delightful,” says Cas. Dean doesn’t understand how a person can say _delightful_ and mean it.

He notices that Cas is wearing one of his t-shirts tucked into his jeans. A good shirt, too.

“Whoa whoa whoa, Danny Zuko, not so fast,” he says, walking over and untucking the shirt. Cas rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest. “You don’t do that to my clothes.”

“When I get my own clothes, I’ll be tucking my shirt in,” Cas says.

Dean ignores him, smoothing down the wrinkled shirt with his hand, then waggles his finger at the bathroom door. “Sam, uh, he heard the shower over the phone. He thought you were my… friend.”

Cas frowns, looking very solemn.

“I am your friend.”

There’s a long pause.

“Right,” says Dean. “You’re my friend.” He walks by, claps Cas on the shoulder. “I’m your friend too, buddy.”

Cas makes a small, thoughtful noise. Dean goes into the bathroom, locks the door, stays in the shower for a long time.

* * *

“You stay in the car,” Dean says when they’re almost to Sam’s. “It’s gonna take him a second to get caught up, and I don’t want him trying to take you out.”

“Affirmative,” says Cas. “Staying in the car.”

Dean does a double take.

“Affirmative? Shouldn’t have let you watch _Terminator 2_ last night,” he says.

After a moment of quiet, Cas says, “Chill out, dickwad.” He laughs, mostly to himself.

“So becoming a perma-human finally grew him a funny bone,” Dean mutters. “Okay, okay. Almost there.”

Dean parks on the other side of the street, gives Cas a look, and heads up to Sam’s door. Almost as soon as he rings the doorbell, Sam is opening the door, scooping him into a hug.

“Whoa, hey, good to see you too,” Dean says, patting Sam’s back. Eileen peeks around from behind Sam and waves.

“Come on in!” says Sam, stepping back inside. “Can’t wait for you to tell us all about it.”

Dean hesitates just long enough for Sam to get concerned.

“What?” he says. “What’s wrong?”

“I have a, uh. I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” Sam raises one eyebrow and squints the other eye, a classic Sam expression that Dean both missed immensely and is irritated by.

“Just hang on, okay? Let me go back in the car and… Get it. But you have to promise me—” He points up at Sam. “You have to promise me you’re not going to freak out.”

Sam looks around.

“I mean… all right,” he says suspiciously.

“It’s good, I promise. It’s a good thing. You’re gonna like it. And—and it _is_ what it… what it is. I know for certain.”

“What are you talking about, dude?”

“Just shut the door,” Dean says, shutting it in Sam’s face. He reopens it just long enough to say, “be right back,” then slams it again.

“Go time,” he says to Cas, opening the car door, and they walk back up to the door together.

“Is he excited to see me?” Cas says.

“He doesn’t know it’s you,” says Dean, adjusting his jacket.

“Oh,” says Cas. His face falls a bit.

“But he will soon,” says Dean. “That’s the whole point.” He makes a finger gun at Cas, winks, clicks his tongue. Rings the doorbell again.

When Sam opens the door again, his eyes open so wide they nearly roll back in his head. He shuts the door. He opens it again, just long enough to yank Dean inside by the jacket, then shuts it once more.

“What the fuck is that?” says Sam, gesturing broadly towards the door.

“It’s Cas,” says Dean simply. “It’s Cas.”

“And how do you know that, huh? Cas is dead, Dean. He’s supposed to be in Heaven. What did you do?”

Dean turns around incredulously, sees Eileen watching from the kitchen. She disappears behind the wall, eyes wide.

“What did _I_ do? What did I _do_? I didn’t do shit, Sammy. He came back. He chose to come back.”

“How did he choose to come back? What’s—” Sam rubs a hand over his face, sits down at the dining table. “So that’s really Cas? And, what, he just decided to come back from Heaven because he was bored?”

Dean considers for a second, lips pursed, eyebrows raised.

“Not so far off,” he says. “Look, Sam, he—he heard my prayers, okay? I was praying, and I thought he’d turned off Dean radio, but I guess he hadn’t. I asked him to come back and he did.”

Sam looks up slowly, like he’s surprised.

“You have never talked about this, you know. You never talked with me about missing him. You told me when he went to the Empty, and that’s it. It was like he never existed. I tried to get you to talk about him and you wouldn’t. Dean, I have to be honest, I thought you _didn’t_ miss him. I thought you had stopped caring.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, just bites his lip from the inside of his mouth.

“And now he’s… he’s just back? How long?”

“Few weeks,” says Dean. “Been hunting.”

“You’ve been _hunting_ with Cas?” Everything Sam repeats back looks like a knife to his chest. Dean regrets telling him. Regrets not telling him earlier. “Is he even an angel anymore? Can he protect himself?”

“He’s human,” Dean says quietly.

“He fell for you,” Sam says. He laughs without humor. “Again. Fucking incredible.”

Dean sits, folds his hands tightly on the table.

“This isn’t safe for him, Dean. This isn’t Cas’s lifestyle. Remember the last time he tried to hunt as a human? Are you trying to get him hurt? He doesn’t have any of his powers, he’s not trained, he doesn’t have combat skills, he can’t heal you—"

“Enough,” says Dean. “Enough, okay? I’m hunting, and he’s with me. So he’s hunting. He’s learning. I’m not fucking—I’m not trying to hurt him. Why the fuck would you even say that?”

Sam shakes his head, but doesn’t argue anymore.

“What are you so pissed off about anyway?” says Dean. “I thought you’d be happy to see him. You’re gonna… break his dumb little heart, leaving him out there.”

“Oh, _I’m_ gonna break his heart?”

The look that Sam gives him chills him to the core. But then Sam takes a breath, looks calm for the first time since he saw Cas.

“I am happy to see him,” he says sincerely, plainly. “And I’m happy to see you too. It’s just… It’s just a shock, you know? It’s gonna take some adjusting.”

Dean nods carefully. “Took some adjusting for me too.”

There are three gentle knocks at the door. Sam looks at Dean.

Dean shrugs a shoulder, one hand lifted. “He learned to knock.”

“We’re not done with this conversation,” Sam says. He stands and heads to open the door.

“Hello, Sam,” Cas says. He sounds equal parts pleasant and wary.

Sam sighs heavily.

“Hey, Cas,” he says, wrapping Cas up in a big hug. “Really good to see you, man.”

Once Sam has administered the requisite tests—holy water, silver, et cetera—to a resigned and amused Cas, Sam says, “Listen, we just need to wrap up a little talk we’re having. You mind staying in here for a sec?”

“Of course,” Cas says.

“Hi Castiel,” Eileen says, rounding the corner of the living room, glancing back at Sam. Sam nods once. She visibly relaxes.

“Eileen,” says Cas. “A pleasure.”

Cas sits down on the couch, Eileen in a chair in the opposite corner. Dean and Sam head to Sam’s office. ( _Sam has an office,_ Dean thinks. _In a house he owns._ )

“So,” Dean says, plopping down in a big, puffy leather chair. “What else?”

“What else?” says Sam. “I don’t know, maybe we can talk about what you and Cas have been doing alone together for _a few weeks_.”

“Way to get into my private business, Sammy,” says Dean. Sam raises an eyebrow again. “It’s a fuckin’ joke, man. I told you, we’re hunting.”

“Nuh-uh,” says Sam. He leans against his desk. “Before he died—” Sam pauses, heaves out a long breath. “Before he went away, for months, maybe a year, maybe _years_ , you were just… mean to him. You were cruel. And then somehow he still loved you. Which he told you. And then you pretended not to care for months and months while you were apparently secretly praying to get him back every night.”

Dean looks away. His eyes fall on some tasteful wall art.

“Well, when you put it like that,” he says. “There’s nothing, Sam. He’s back. We’re on the road together. All is forgiven. What else do you want me to say?”

“Have you talked about any of it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You idiot,” says Sam. “He’s still in love with you. He came back to earth to spend a human life with you. Don’t you have any thoughts about that?”

“You know I don’t think ahead much, Sammy.” Dean scratches his nose. “Why should I, huh? Maybe he’ll just go away again. Maybe—maybe he’ll die. Maybe you’ll die. Hell, maybe I’ll die! And now that the gates to the afterlife are welded shut, maybe that’ll just be it. Or maybe Cas’ll have a grand old time with me on the road, sure, and then in a few months he’ll decide he’s had enough of me. Go off to greener pastures. You know, meet some other folks who aren’t so cruel. I’m not gonna change my life for someone who’s halfway out the door.”

Sam’s eyes soften.

“I don’t think he’s planning on leaving you this time, Dean.”

“That never stopped him before.”

They look at each other for a long moment.

“He just gave up a lot of certainty for you. He turned everything upside down, again, just to come be with you.” Sam leans in. “Not us. You.”

Dean swallows hard.

“I’m just saying,” says Sam. “I think you’d better make some decisions pretty quickly about how you feel and what you’re willing to do about it.”

“Good talk, Sammy.” Dean stands, starts to leave.

“One more thing.”

He turns on his heel. “What?”

“Was that him? In the shower?”

“Oh, rich,” says Dean over his shoulder, already in the hall.

Sam nods, pressing his lips together tightly.

“Friends,” he says. “Yep.”

When Dean arrives back in the living room, Cas and Eileen are still sitting across the room from each other in total silence, both looking anywhere but at each other. Eileen’s legs are crossed, her hands rested elegantly on the chair arms. Cas is smack-dab in the middle of the couch, hands clasped over his knees, legs pressed together, looking like a huge dweeb.

“Now it’s a party,” says Dean, holding out his arms.

* * *

A couple hours later, Dean has told all the good road stories from the last go-around. They’re sitting around the dinner table, each with a beer in hand, all laughing, relieved to be together. It’s been a long time since Cas has been around for moments like this. Even before he left, it had been a long time since they were a family. Dean keeps thinking maybe it’s not real—that Cas isn’t real, or maybe Dean is the one who isn’t real, that it’ll all fade away any moment, and there’s nothing he could do to stop it. That that’s his punishment for ever letting Cas go.

“Cas, anything to share with the class?” Dean says, taking a swig of his beer.

Thoughtfully, Cas says, “I’ve tasted many new foods. Mostly greasy.”

Eileen taps the table.

“Have you ever cooked, Cas?” she asks.

“Not… really,” Cas says. “I’ve constructed sandwiches.”

“He loves the Food Network,” Dean offers.

Cas nods in affirmation. “I do enjoy the Food Network.”

“Would you like to help me with dinner? I’m making shepherd’s pie.”

Cas perks up, which Dean is fascinated to see.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “I’d love to. Shepherd’s pie.” He laughs knowingly, leaning in and nodding slightly towards the others. “Biblical.”

Dean chokes a little on his beer.

As Cas and Eileen head into the kitchen, Sam turns toward Dean.

“Garage?”

“Hell yeah,” says Dean.

In the garage, they each hold their beer bottles in one hand and stuff the other in a pocket, Dean leaning against the wall, Sam against his car. Dean feels acutely aware of his age.

He gestures towards Sam’s car with the beer hand.

“Honda Pilot,” he says. “You’ve gone soft, Sammy.”

Sam smirks, shrugging in acceptance.

“It was safe and cheap used.”

Dean shakes his head.

“No excuse,” he says.

Another quiet moment while they both sip their beers.

Sam says, “Dean, you sure you’re doing okay?”

“What?” says Dean, genuinely surprised by the question. “Yeah. Hunting is going well. Out on the open road.” He shrugs, takes another drink. Then, more quietly: “Cas is back.”

Sam nods and nods, looking around the garage.

“Well,” he says, “I won’t repeat myself. If you’re good with this, then I’m happy for you, dude.”

“Good with it,” Dean repeats. He scoffs. “I mean, it just kinda happened. I’m taking what I can get.”

Sam shakes his head, still not looking Dean in the eyes.

“It didn’t just happen,” he says. “I know I keep saying this but the guy’s been in love with you for years. Ever since he… you know. Learned how to do love in a human way.”

Dean bites the inside of his mouth again.

“And you—” starts Sam, but whatever he’s going to say, he thinks better of it. “I think this could be good for you, if you let it.”

“Good for me what?” says Dean. “What’s good for me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” says Sam, staring at the ground. “Maybe just that you have a tendency to fuck things up when they get too real. Especially with Cas.”

“Oh, right, I forgot. I’m mean and cruel.”

“That’s not what I—I’m not saying you don’t deserve to be happy. I’m just saying that for somebody like Cas, maybe you need to work a little harder to deserve it.”

The parts of Dean that still blame Cas for everything—for keeping and losing Jack, for Mom, for Rowena, for staying too long, for leaving—boil right under his skin. _Somebody like Cas?_ he wants to say. _Somebody who betrayed us? Somebody who left me again and again?_ But he knows Sam is right.

“So you think I’m gonna break his heart?” He looks up at the ceiling.

“I think you can choose not to.”

“It’s more complicated than that, Sam,” he says.

Sam takes his hand out of his pocket, crosses his arms. “It doesn’t have to be.”

In the following long, awkward silence, the longest and most awkward so far, Dean chugs the rest of his beer.

Finally, Sam finally looks at him and asks, “Was he wearing your clothes?”

“Oh, come on,” he says, shaking his head, feigning irritation but really relieved to be talking about anything else. Sam laughs a genuine laugh. “You know he’s all naked and whatever when he gets locked out of heaven.”

Sam’s eyes nearly pop out of his head.

“So he showed up at your door naked?”

“No!” says Dean, slamming his empty bottle down on Sam’s workbench. “No, Jesus, he found some stoners in the woods who gave him some clothes. I just figured he needed some more serious gear and, you know, we were kinda running on empty.”

“You need more cash?”

“I mean,” says Dean, and he sighs. “It would be nice to have, sure. Cas is eating me out of nonexistent house and home. But…” He shakes his head. “I don’t wanna take anything else from you.”

Sam shrugs.

“We have the money, dude. It’s seriously no problem.”

“I know. I know.”

Silence.

“How about this,” Sam says, finally, slowly. “I’ll strike you a deal.”

“Oh, sure, haven’t struck enough _deals_ for thirty lifetimes.”

“The deal is,” Sam continues, “I’ll give you enough to get you through the rest of the summer. That’s enough time to get through whatever’s left of the monsters, right?”

Dean grunts.

“Okay, so you hunt down whatever’s left by the end of July. And then you come home.”

“Home,” says Dean. “Not sure I’ve got one of those.”

“You do.” Sam pushes off the car, moves toward Dean, a reassuring hand falling on his shoulder. Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s here.”

“So I just camp out here in Barbie’s dream house for the rest of my life?”

“You’ve got the Campbell house,” Sam says. “You were doing a great job on renovations. I’m happy to help however I can with that.”

“You talkin’ financial, or you gonna come sling some wood?”

Sam pulls his head back and narrows his eyes.

“Wrong phrasing,” Dean says, putting up a hand in surrender. “You know I hate living alone in that house, in that _suburb_ , surrounded by all those fuckin’… old people.”

“Alone?” Sam puts his hands out, palms up, elbows in, as if to say, _seriously?_ “You’ve got Cas now.”

“Nice little domestic fantasy you’ve got going there, Sammy, but I don’t think it’s gonna happen.”

Sam rubs his forehead, obviously frustrated.

“That’s the deal,” he says. “I pay for the summer and then you come back. I help with the house. Cas can make his own decisions.”

“Okay,” says Dean. Sam is already heading back inside. “Okay.”

Inside, Cas is emanating a manic energy.

“I wouldn’t have expected onions to have a defense mechanism against cutting,” he says, staring at his hands.

“I’m not sure that’s—” Dean stops. He’s not actually sure why onions make you cry.

“20 minutes until dinner is ready,” says Eileen, signing to Sam. “Then dessert.” He nods. Cas continues to vibrate.

“You, uh…” Dean comes up behind Cas, clapping a hand down on his shoulder. “You doing all right there, pal?”

“Yes,” says Cas, a bit too loudly and quickly. Eileen sucks a smile back into her teeth.

“He’s a great chef,” she says.

“I like to cook,” he says with incredible earnestness.

Dean smirks and pats his shoulder again.

“Good to have hobbies, I guess.”

They go back to the table, trade old stories. When Cas gets up to take dinner out of the oven, Sam’s eyes follow him.

“Damn, it’s good to have him back.”

For a second, Dean remembers: Cas was gone. For so long. Because of him. Somehow, tonight, he’d almost managed to forget.

Cas comes back in wearing oven mitts, holding the baking dish out expectantly. He sets it down in the middle of the table.

“Dinner,” he says as he sits down, then holds out his hands as if that means something.

“Let’s eat,” says Dean, already reaching to scoop out a piece.

Cas seems to get progressively more excited throughout dinner. Dean doesn’t think he’s drunk—he’s only had two beers the whole time they’ve been there, and he’s been working on his tolerance the past few weeks on the road. When he gets up again to check on dessert, Dean leans over to Sam and whispers, “You seeing this?”

“Yeah, what’s up with him?”

Eileen takes a measured sip of her beer.

Cas comes back in, back in the oven mitts, carrying another pan. It smells delicious. It’s pie.

“We made you a pie,” he blurts out, setting it down on the table. “It’s an apple pie. We made it. I helped.”

Sam nods steadily, as if he finally understands something, his hands clasped under his chin.

“When we found out you were coming, we bought the stuff to make pie,” he says. “You know, premade crust and stuff.”

Dean moves his eyes from Sam to Eileen, who is following Cas with her eyes and beaming, and to Cas, who is staring straight at Dean.

“Well,” says Dean, suddenly feeling a lot of pressure, “I guess it’s no homemade crust, but I’m a beggar, not a chooser. Thank you Eileen.” He nods toward Eileen, who nods back. “And thank you… Cas.”

“No need to thank me,” says Cas. “I’d be truly happy to make a pie any time.”

“Better keep you around then,” Dean says, smiling, before he realizes that he’s said it. He clears his throat, looks down at the table. It doesn’t seem like Cas noticed.

“Two pies,” he says. “Savory and sweet. Irish and American. The diversity of human experience is astounding.”

Dean can’t quite tell if he’s being sarcastic.

* * *

Later that night, after a few more hours and a few more beers, long after the whole pie is gone, Dean tells Cas he’ll sleep on the couch.

“I slept in that guest room for months,” he says. “I’m tired of it.”

“Nice vote of confidence for our interior design,” Sam grumbles.

Cas is loose and languid a few beers in, one ankle crossed over a knee, arm draped over the back of the couch.

“That won’t be necessary, Dean. You gave up the bed last time. I can take the couch.”

“You sure?”

Cas nods, smirking.

“I think I can handle it. I was homeless for a time. And I slept in your car once.”

“Okay, Danger Mouse,” says Dean, holding up his hands. “If you insist.”

“I do insist.” He looks up at Dean, dopey and a little drunk, his head lolling slightly to the side. Dean’s chest feels tight. He coughs.

When he looks up, Sam and Eileen are both staring. He glares at them both. Eileen winks. He looks away as fast as possible.

“Looks like it’s bedtime,” he says, pushing himself off the couch. Cas sits up a little straighter. “Night, everybody.” He taps Sam’s shoulder as he exits the room, and Sam taps his hand back.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas says quietly. Dean doesn’t turn around.

* * *

The next morning, Dean sleeps in—he gets a good six hours. When he rolls out of bed and heads to the bathroom, he walks past Sam’s office, where the door is barely ajar. He hears voices inside. Sam and Cas. He thinks seriously about stopping to eavesdrop, but realizes they’re probably talking about him, and he doesn’t want to know.

At breakfast, there’s no weird energy between Sam and Cas. They’re as jovial as ever. Dean eyes them suspiciously, chewing on his toast.

“Good 24-hour vacation from the hunt, Cas?” Sam says. Cas laughs.

“No breaks from the hunt,” he jokes, simultaneously with Dean muttering the exact same sentence in all sincerity. Dean glares.

“Stealing my words before I even say them,” he says, mouth full. “Thought you were too human to pull that psychic shit now.”

“I must be very perceptive,” Cas says, obviously pleased with himself.

“I mean,” says Sam, looking over Dean’s way, “there’ll be a break coming up pretty soon. Possibly a somewhat permanent break. Right, Dean?”

Dean inhales loudly, then exhales, also loudly.

“Guess so,” he says. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.

“So you’re coming back to Lawrence?” says Eileen.

“Well,” says Dean. There’s nothing else to that sentence. The only sound is the clinking of Cas’s fork against his plate. “I’m weighing my options,” he says finally.

Sam nods, satisfied. He knows that means he’s won.

“ _Well_ ,” Dean says again, with a different intonation this time, “I think we’d better get back on the road, huh, Cas?”

Cas nods and stands.

“Is there something to be done with the dishes?” he asks. Dean looks down at his own plate with the tiniest sense of guilt. He hadn’t even thought about taking it to the kitchen.

“You can just put the plate in the sink,” says Sam. “Thanks, man.”

Cas leans across the table and grabs Dean’s plate without even asking. Dean opens his mouth to say _thank you_ but nothing comes out.

While Cas is gone, Sam reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. He hands it to Dean.

“This enough for the two of you?”

“Anything’s enough,” says Dean. “I appreciate it, Sammy.” The stack weighs his hand down. Of course it’s too much. Dean immediately resolves to spend less than half, unless there’s an emergency. He stuffs it in his jacket pocket.

“What about supplies?” Sam asks as Cas returns. Dean notices Cas’s eyes flicker over to Sam in a way that might be weird—it’s hard to tell with Cas.

“I think we’re good,” Dean says. “Seriously, thank you. Thanks for… everything. For letting us stake out here.”

They hug, and Sam pats his back twice, hard.

“You know you’re always welcome,” he says. “No matter what.” Then he pulls away, heads towards Cas, says, “You too, buddy. Always.” They embrace too, and a soft place in Dean’s heart is really happy to see them back together.

Then Dean hugs Eileen; Eileen hugs Cas; Dean thinks about joking that Sam and Eileen should hug and then he and Cas, but he thinks it might be weird, so he doesn’t.

“We love having you, Dean,” Eileen says. “And you too, Cas. Be safe. Let us know if you need anything.”

“Will do,” says Dean. He grabs his bag off the floor—there’s just one bag between him and Cas because they wear the same clothes. Cas doesn’t really own anything anymore, besides a toothbrush and a Chapstick Dean grabbed him from CVS, some underwear, and the tennis shoes the campers gave him.

Dean heads towards the door, but Sam still has a hand on Cas’s arm, holding him back.

“Seriously, Cas,” Sam says. “Anything you need, you let us know. Be careful. Be safe.”

Cas nods with an expression that Dean finds unreadable. Worry and irritation bubble up inside him simultaneously. He doesn’t want Sam and Cas keeping secrets. But he doesn’t even know if they are.

Back in the car, driving south, Dean says, “So what was that all about?”

“What?”

“You and Sam this morning,” he says. “I’m starting to feel like a third wheel here.”

Cas presses his lips together and Dean can’t tell if he’s trying not to smile or not to frown.

“Sam is just concerned for my well-being,” he says, turning his face to look out the car window. “He wants to make sure I’m safe. I’m grateful.”

Dean nods and doesn’t ask any more questions. After a moment, though, he can’t stop himself from saying: “Come on. You’re safe. You’re with me.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) my friend/writing companion and i have been collaborating on a series of playlists related to this verse and, as supplementary listening material for this chapter, we would like to share with you the DJ set for monday night at the best gay bar in oklahoma! https://rb.gy/5hjs8h
> 
> 2) this is a long chapter and it's the last time i'll be posting before the finale!! but FEAR NOT because i WILL be back soon. from now on i'll probably be on a once-a-week posting schedule. but believe me: there's a lot left here, lmao.
> 
> 3) behold......... the Sexual Scene

The next night, stopping through a rural town in Oklahoma and still feeling restless from the visit to Sam, Dean is itching to get out of the motel room.

“How would you feel about a night out on the town?” he says, shutting his laptop and folding his arms onto the table to lean toward Cas.

“What town?” says Cas earnestly. Dean rolls his eyes—despite having not been raised on Earth, Cas is somehow still a city-slicker.

“Ah, come on,” he says. “Country folk love to drink and the liquor stores down here are sparse. There’s gotta be a good bar around here somewhere.”

They head down to the check-in desk and when Dean spots the girl behind the counter—thin, dark-haired, probably mid-twenties—he winks at Cas and whispers, “Watch this.”

“Hey there,” he says, sidling up to the counter. “Any chance you might be able to recommend me some good bars around these parts?”

She glances up from her magazine, looks at him, looks over to Cas, looks back at Dean.

“On a Monday?” she says.

Dean shrugs.

“You know what they say. It’s 5 o’clock on a Friday somewhere.”

She continues to stare somewhat blankly at him, then rolls her rolling chair away to grab a sticky note.

“I think I know what you’re looking for,” she says, scribbling down an address. “It’s the closest one to us—you can walk there easy. All the others are in the next town over, about a fifteen minute drive. But this one should be fine for y’all. It’s called The Club.”

“The Club,” says Dean, raising his eyebrows and looking back over his shoulder at Cas, who nods stiffly. “How mysterious.” He takes the note and says, “Much obliged, ma’am.”

She giggles and waves at him—then turns and waves shyly at Cas too.

“Y’all have fun now,” she says. “Hope everything’s good with your room.”

“What was I supposed to be watching?” Cas says as they head back to the room.

“Honestly I’m not sure anymore,” says Dean, staring at his hands. “Was she coming onto you instead of me? Have I lost my mojo?”

“Me?” Cas’s brow furrows deeply. “No, I don’t think she was interested in me. Or you.”

“This bar better be worth that particular humiliation,” Dean says, pulling the room keys out of his pocket. “I’d better get wasted.”

Around 7 PM, they walk to The Club, just a ten minute walk from the hotel on some sidewalk and a lot of grass. It stands alone, a few yards away from a gas station. Outside, it looks like a ramshackle barn. Inside it also looks like a ramshackle barn, but with a tattooed bartender. A small assortment of grizzled older men sit at the bar, all nursing beers, at least one seat between each of them, and a few younger men sit together in the booths on the other side of the room. There’s a small, empty stage at one end and a pool table at the other. Dean feels at home here. Then he notices there’s a lot of art on the walls—neon beer signs, the anarchist symbol, a moderately-size print of the “if I die of AIDS forget burial” photograph that Dean has seen a couple times before. A pride flag.

“Holy shit, dude,” says Dean, pulling Cas aside right at the entrance. “This is a gay bar.”

“Interesting,” says Cas. “I haven’t been to one of these.”

“She told us a gay bar on purpose,” Dean says, shaking his head, ignoring whatever Cas is saying. “I can’t believe it.”

“I—” says Cas. He doesn’t finish the sentence, says instead: “I think this is a fitting environment for me.” He heads up to the bar and takes a seat.

Dean feels like Cas just punched him in the stomach. He hadn’t even stopped to think carefully about what to say in front of Cas. He doesn’t know how Cas labels himself, if he does at all. Can an angel be gay? But he’s not even an angel anymore. Has Cas had sex with a man? Probably not, right? He’s barely had sex with a woman. Dean doesn’t want to think about this. He rushes to catch up to Cas.

“New blood,” the tattooed bartender says, sauntering over. “I’m John D. What can I get you boys?”

“Two PBRs,” he says, holding up two fingers. He notices a piece of paper taped to the wall behind the bar that says, “WE DON’T PLAY SHANIA HERE — DON’T ASK.”

“Comin’ right up,” the guy says. He’s of moderate height, kind of thin and bony but broad-shouldered, a balding redhead with stubble and glasses. When he passes them the cans and glasses, he says, “Y’all new around here?”

“We’re just travelers passin’ through,” says Dean quickly, holding up a hand in half-dismissal, half-apology. “Probably be gone by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Pity,” says the guy. “All these geezers have been here for years. We could use a couple new faces.”

Dean looks up at Cas, who’s smiling.

“It is a shame,” Cas says sincerely. “So is this… the crowd?”

Dean and the bartender both take a second to parse the question.

“If you mean _is this everybody_ ,” says John D, “we’ll probably get a few more around 9. Few more regulars who come in later. There’s a college a couple towns over and we get straight girls and grad students. But we’re certainly not gonna get too busy on a Monday.”

“Works for us,” Dean says, cracking open his beer and drinking straight from the can. Cas watches, pops his open too, pours it carefully in the glass.

John D grabs Dean’s glass without a second glance.

“Can tell I don’t need to waste this on you,” he says. “But your friend here’s sophisticated.”

When he walks away, Cas turns to Dean, barely concealed delight in his eyes.

“I’m sophisticated,” he says with a shrug.

“If you _were_ stickin’ around,” John D shouts from the other end of the bar, “I’d tell you we have karaoke on Wednesdays.”

Without even looking at Cas, Dean holds a finger up in his face.

“No,” he says, though a part of him is sorely tempted.

As he drinks, Dean shifts around on the ancient bar stool, unable to get comfortable. Cas seems very relaxed. He keeps looking around the room like he’ll find something new, or like he just wants to look at the same empty table twelve times.

“Such an interesting establishment,” he says. “The décor is inconsistent, but it feels… homey.”

“Okay, queer eye,” says Dean, and then he feels kind of bad about saying it. He glances around to make sure no one else heard. Is that homophobic? Is he homophobic? Sure, he used to be, a long time ago, with John looming over his shoulder physically or otherwise, but now he isn’t. Now he's... whatever he is. And the beer is starting to remind him what he’d spent weeks burying: that he and Cas kissed on the first night Cas got back. He shakes his head hard like it could get the thought out.

“Everything all right?” says Cas, brow knit both in concern and because Cas’s brow is kind of permanently knit.

“All good,” Dean says. He points to Cas’s almost empty glass. “You want another?”

“I might like to try something else,” he says thoughtfully.

“Whiskey,” Dean says, less of a suggestion, more of a statement.

“Maybe something you wouldn’t drink,” Cas says pointedly. Dean blinks in surprise.

“But I have great taste!” he says.

“I’m just trying to expand my horizons as a human.” Cas downs the rest of his PBR, puts his elbow on the bar and his chin in his hand. “I had tequila once. And when I consumed the stock of an entire liquor store, I did get to experience some variety, though the taste was—” He wiggles his fingers around. “You know. Molecule-y.”

“Molecule-y,” Dean repeats incredulously. “All right, Bill Nye. Well, the menu here’s probably not too big, so I say maybe you go with a rum and Coke to be safe. You’ll probably like that. It’s a baby drink.”

“Pardon me,” Cas mutters.

“You might like absinthe too,” Dean mutters back.

“What?” says Cas.

“Oh, alternate universe. Don’t worry about it.”

Cas stares at him in confusion.

“John D,” says Dean, flagging down the bartender, who’s mostly just been chatting with the regulars. “Another for me and a rum and Coke for him.”

While the bartender is grabbing their drinks, Dean looks at Cas surreptitiously, like he’s afraid someone will see him looking. He was mostly joking about the absinthe, but he realizes for the first time that Cas really is starting to look like the version of himself from Camp Chitaqua: the hunting clothes, the stubble that’s now on its way to beard territory, since he hasn’t shaved since he arrived. He looks more like that version of Cas than the actual last time Cas was human. Dean feels a chill run down his spine. But this isn’t that Cas. This is this Cas.

With a beer in him and another on the way, he’s willing to admit that he likes the way Cas looks in his clothes: the unbuttoned flannel over the black t-shirt, the jeans that are a little tight, even the ugly sneakers he got from the campers and wears because Dean doesn’t have any other shoes. It’s charming. Very different from the Novak suit. He likes the stubble and the longer hair. Sure, it’s not necessarily the Cas he knew before—but it’s almost like he can pretend it’s somebody new, somebody who doesn’t have all the baggage they have, but with all the good parts of hanging out with Cas. Cas knows Dean better than almost anyone else on the planet and yet maybe they can still get to know each other.

“I make ‘em strong,” says John D, pushing the rum and Coke in front of Cas. Dean laughs.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” he says. John D winks and walks away.

“So, Coke,” Cas says. “Coca-Cola, yes? Not cocaine?”

“It’s definitely cocaine,” Dean says. “They go hard in Oklahoma.”

Cas stares down into his drink, wide-eyed.

“I’m kidding,” Dean says, pushing the drink towards him. “It’s pop. Drink up.”

About halfway through Cas’s rum and Coke, Dean realizes he’s going to need to play some serious catch-up, so he orders two shots of Jameson. Cas looks at him expectantly when they arrive.

“Uh-uh,” he says. “You’re good. Both for me.” He shoots one back and sets the other to the side.

As an angel, Cas could down a line of shots without blinking (as he does most things). As a human, one drink pretty much gets him there. He’s adapted fairly well to Dean’s a-few-beers-before-bed schedule, so it’s not as bad now as it was at first, but there’s still a learning curve. If Dean wants to keep up—and he does, he wants no gap in their levels of relative sobriety—then he’ll need to move a little quicker.

To be honest, Dean hasn’t been drinking all that much since Cas got back. Relatively speaking. Before that, he was drinking whenever he could. Before _that_ , even before Cas left, he’d been drinking a little too heavily for a while. Not that he never drank on the job in prior years—but this was different. He would say things he didn’t mean. Sometimes to Sam. Mostly to Cas. Or he meant them, but then, later, he would realize he was wrong and wish he hadn’t said them. But by then it was always too late.

Now Cas is here, keeping him busy. When he’d normally be drinking alone, they’re watching old movies or driving around. Just driving and talking. When he’d normally be drinking on an empty stomach, they’re eating dinner together. He doesn’t feel the lack.

By now it must be around 9, because a few more folks are starting to filter in. A middle-aged butch lesbian walks in and shouts, “Y’all gonna play any Etheridge tonight?” to raucous laughter from John D. Then there are a few tittering college girls, not too many, and some younger folks, all with dyed, asymmetrical hair and jean jackets. The music is getting a little louder—Dean realizes he hasn’t been paying much attention to it, but now Cas is swaying just slightly in his seat. Not like he’s too drunk to sit up. He’s just… kind of dancing. His shoulders moving back and forth.

“Wow,” Dean says. “I have _never_ seen you dance.”

Cas grins, the same woozy smile he gave Dean on the couch at Sam’s house.

“I’m a new man,” he says breezily. “I dance now.”

Dean bites back a smile.

“A real live dancing human being,” he says. And then he surprises himself by saying, “You wanna get out on the dance floor?”

Cas nods and suddenly somehow looks ten years younger. Though Jimmy Novak’s body wasn’t supposed to age while Cas was taking up residence, Dean had noticed a few times over the past few years how ragged Cas was starting to look. How tired. How much older. It was, he supposed, because Cas had been through so much, metaphysically speaking—all the transformations, the possessions, the losing grace and getting it back. Maybe it was also because by then, Cas was a little less than an angel, a little more than a human. Now he’s just a person in a person’s body, and he’s going to keep aging like any man would. Someday, Dean realizes, Cas will have grey hair. Someday pretty soon he will too. In fact, it’s a miracle he hasn’t gone grey already. Sam started greying out basically the minute they settled into the new world. For the second time in as many days, an awareness of time—how quickly it seems to be running out now that the world is no longer ending—lodges itself into his body.

“Let’s go then,” he says. He drains his beer, downs the other shot, slams the glass down on the bar.

The dance floor is just full enough that Dean doesn’t feel too self-conscious to grab Cas’s hands at arm’s length and start swaying to whatever Kacey Musgraves song is playing. He’s just drunk enough that he thinks it’s really funny for them to be playing Kacey Musgraves, but it also makes sense. He doesn’t say anything to Cas because Cas has no idea who Kacey Musgraves is.

After a few moments of playful swaying, Dean tries to spin him, feeling a little smug when he executes it perfectly and Cas turns around looking shocked and delighted. He doesn’t even think about it—he pulls Cas into a tight hug and says, “I’m glad you’re back.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, his head resting on Dean’s shoulder, just holds Dean a little tighter, grasping the back of his jacket.

They stay like that for a few minutes, pressed together, Cas moving his hands down to place them loosely around Dean’s waist, Dean’s arms slung around Cas’s neck. Then Cas clears his throat and pulls away.

“Another drink,” he says. When he starts moving towards the bar, he walks backwards for a second, eyes lingering on Dean, before he turns around. Dean follows behind.

“Rum and Coke?” John D asks, pointing at Cas, who nods. Then he looks at Dean. “You keepin’ good watch of him?” He’s still pointing, now right at Dean’s chest, head lowered, eyes raised, cheerfully accusatory.

“Yes sir,” Dean says, jamming his hands in his pockets, not sure if he should be laughing or nervous about what this guy senses between them.

John D leans in and whispers something to Cas. Cas laughs, whispers something back, and John D pats him on the shoulder before walking away, slinging his towel over his shoulder.

“What did he say?” Dean says, moving in closer. “What did you say?” His shoulder brushes against Cas’s.

“Couldn’t tell you,” says Cas, attempting to look grave and failing. “It’s a secret.”

Dean rolls his eyes. When John D gets back Dean gives him a glare. John D winks, putting down the rum and Coke and two unordered shots.

“This is on the house, you ungrateful bastard.”

Cas starts cracking up—the most Dean has ever seen him laugh. He grabs the bar with one hand, his eyes squeezed shut.

“All right, all right,” Dean says, grabbing Cas by the arm. “Get your little drink and come back out here.”

“What about the shots?” Cas says, still chuckling. “You’re going to let them sit there?”

Dean looks at them, then shrugs.

“One’s for you,” he says, picking up the nearest one. “Bottoms up.”

Cas does the same, shoots it back, nearly chokes.

“Brutal,” he says once he recovers, wiping at his mouth.

“We’ll get you back in the game sooner or later, buddy.” Dean starts pulling Cas by the arm. “Come on.”

Back on the floor, they’re playing “Jackson” by Johnny Cash.

“Great fuckin’ song,” Dean shouts over the music. “Fuckin’ classic.”

He removes the glass from Cas’s hand and places it on the nearest table—puts one arm around Cas’s waist and grabs his hand in the other, ballroom dancing-style, sways them both back and forth. Cas looks the happiest Dean has ever seen him, mouth still opening in a grinning laugh, his big eyes all crinkled up. Dean throws him out for another spin.

“The spinning is nice,” Cas shouts into Dean’s face, “but I’m also spinning internally. Multifaceted spinning.” Then he thinks for a second, eyes floating up towards the ceiling. “I love this song too,” he says decisively.

After a few more lively songs—Cas is thrilled to learn how many humans know all the words to “Jolene”—and after Dean has allowed him to pick his rum and Coke back up to finish it, they start playing the slow songs. Dean starts to head back towards the bar, and Cas hesitates, but he follows.

While they’re waiting for John D to pop back up, Dean ruffles Cas’s hair.

“You havin’ a good time?”

“I’m having a very, very good time.” He looks at Dean the way he’s looked at Dean many times before. Dean now has the vocabulary to describe this look as _deeply in love._ He swallows hard, flags John D down. “Two more shots for me,” he says. “He’s done.”

Cas narrows his eyes but doesn’t protest. He sits down on the nearest barstool, wobbling just a little.

“Hey, okay,” Dean says, throwing out a stabilizing arm. “Feelin’ it now? Yeah, maybe sit.”

Cas places his hand gently over Dean’s on his arm, rubs it absently. Dean recalls the case with the guy whose heart beat out of his chest.

When John D returns with the shots, Dean hands him two twenties.

“Keep the change,” he says. “Thanks, man.”

“Y’all have a good night, now,” says John D, glancing at Cas, back at Dean. “Be safe and be well.”

Dean gives him a quick nod and salute, then turns back to Cas.

“You good?”

Cas nods, looking up at him.

“I’d like to keep dancing,” he says. “If that’s okay with you.”

“A couple more songs,” says Dean, feigning reluctance. “Fine.”

Now they’re playing “Cowboy Take Me Away.” Dean downs both his shots, takes a sharp inhale through the teeth, and lifts Cas up from his seat, slinging a supportive arm around his shoulders.

On the floor, Cas leans heavily into Dean, not necessarily out of necessity. He’s drunk, but not falling down drunk. He wraps his arms around Dean, buries his face in his shoulder.

“Yeah, all right,” Dean says quietly, knowing Cas won’t hear him over the music.

A few songs turns into a few more, and a few more, and then suddenly it’s midnight and they’re announcing last call, turning all the lights on one at a time. Tammy Wynette’s “Stand by Your Man” begins to play.

“All right, folks,” yells John D. “Y’all know what that means. Don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”

Cas lifts his head up drowsily, but doesn’t move his arms.

“Time to go?” he says.

“Time to go,” says Dean.

Dean’s drunk too, pretty drunk, but not quite as drunk as Cas. They lean on each other the whole walk home, Dean’s arm around Cas’s shoulders, Cas’s arm around his waist. By the time they make it back to the room, they’re laughing so much that it takes Dean a good while to get his keys out of his pocket, then a good while longer to get the door unlocked. This only makes things funnier. Neither of them moves their arm from around the other.

They stumble inside, fall a little headfirst onto Dean’s bed, the one closer to the door. Still laughing. Dean leans over and starts untying his boots, which gives him some trouble, which Cas thinks is hysterical.

“You’re the one who’s supposed to know how to do that,” he says.

Dean’s abs hurt from laughing. He hasn’t had this much fun in a long, long time. When he gets them kicked off, Cas kicks his off too, and they look at each other for a beat too long.

“Didn’t know you liked Johnny Cash that much,” Dean says, looking away. He feels Cas shift slightly on the bed.

“I didn’t either,” he says. “Though I did meet him once in Heaven. A kind man.”

Dean’s eyes bug out of his skull.

“You met Johnny Cash?” he says. “You met Johnny Cash in _Heaven_ and you’re just telling me this _now_?”

“I don’t see how it was relevant before,” Cas says, befuddled. “We’ve never spoken about Johnny Cash previously.”

Dean keeps laughing, laughing so hard he’s nearly crying.

“Jesus,” he says, gasping for breath. “You’re a riot, you know that?”

He claps a hand down on Cas’s shoulder hard, looks him in the eyes. His vision is, admittedly, a little fuzzy, but Cas has never looked better, never looked happier, never looked kinder or softer or more beautiful. More human.

“I really…” he says. “Cas, I really missed you.”

The corners of Cas’s mouth slowly begin to turn down from his smile. His eyes trace Dean’s face, looking for something.

The next thing Dean knows they’re kissing again, drawn together as quickly as magnets. He doesn’t remember their faces getting any closer together but now here they are, his mouth on Cas’s mouth, both his arms wrapping around Cas’s shoulders, Cas’s hands on his waist. He puts a hand on the back of Cas’s head, pulling him in, as close as he can get him. The electrocution feeling from the first time they kissed rears its head again, buzzing in the back of his neck.

Then Cas’s hand is under his shirt, rubbing his side tentatively, and Dean pulls away. He feels his heart pounding in his chest again. Maybe it’s too much, too fast. Maybe he can’t do this.

“What’s wrong?” Cas says, instantly worried.

“I just, uh,” Dean says. “Need a sec.”

“Of course,” says Cas, scooting back on the bed like he’s been physically burned.

“No, I—” Suddenly, whatever Dean thought he needed a break from, whatever he thought he couldn’t do, now it’s all he wants. He reaches for Cas. Literally reaches out a hand. “I said a _sec_ , not forever.”

“Oh,” says Cas. His voice is so soft that Dean can barely hear it. “Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, Dean kisses him. He’s barely thinking about it. If he was thinking about it, he wouldn’t be able to do it. Their mouths part again and Dean goes right back in, holding the sides of Cas’s face with both hands. He feels the stubble under his palms and kisses harder.

Cas makes a noise into Dean’s mouth and Dean stops kissing him just long enough to put their foreheads together.

“You can keep going,” he says. “You can keep doing what you were doing before.”

Cas nods and kisses the side of his mouth, sliding his hand back up under Dean’s shirt.

 _Okay,_ Dean thinks, _Jesus Christ, this is happening._ He leans forward to urge Cas back and Cas takes the hint, moving to lie down, his head on the pillow. Dean adjusts on top of him.

“Fuck,” Dean says out loud. Cas looks different than ever before and somehow also not different at all: his wide eyes, his messy hair. Dean leans down to kiss his neck.

“Fuck,” Cas agrees. He runs his hand around and up Dean’s back, then the other one.

Dean looks up from his neck-kissing, eyebrows raised. “You say fuck?”

“Now I do,” says Cas.

Overwhelmed by yet another feeling he can’t seem to define, Dean sits up to take off his jacket. He gives a quick nod to Cas, who also sits up, first on his elbows and then on his palms, so Dean can take off his unbuttoned flannel. Dean intends to remove it expeditiously but finds himself sliding it down Cas’s shoulders slowly; he’s distracted as his hands pass over the skin on Cas’s arms. When the shirt hits his wrists, Cas lifts one hand, then the other, to shake it off. Dean tosses it to the side. They look into each other’s eyes for a long moment.

“Dean,” says Cas, his voice breaking slightly.

“I’m right here,” says Dean. He leans down to kiss Cas’s neck again, then his jaw, then his mouth, slowly this time. “I’m here.”

He shifts just enough to pull his shirt off and Cas does the same, throwing his across the room with force. Dean does a double-take and looks back at Cas, questioning.

“I don’t need that,” Cas says, very seriously.

Dean laughs and kisses him again, and then their hands are all over each other, desperate to keep touching. This is the most skin-to-skin contact they’ve ever had, physically the closest they’ve ever been, and it still isn’t enough. He feels Cas’s fingers tracing along the top of his jeans, back around his stomach, along his belt.

“Is this—” Cas says against his mouth. “Can I—”

Dean doesn’t say anything, just unbuckles the belt and guides Cas’s hand to touch him. It occurs to him that he hasn’t had sex in a long time—definitely not since Cas left, and a while before that. And now here Cas is, fumbling at the button on his jeans. For a split second, Dean starts to panic again. Then Cas looks up at him, distressed, says, “I’ve—I’ve never unbuttoned a button this way. The button of another.” And Dean knows again that everything is okay—that this is Cas, that this is what Cas wants, that this is what Dean wants and has wanted for a long time, even if he didn’t know, even if he told himself he didn’t.

He kisses Cas again, and Cas starts to relax. Then, suddenly, Cas has hooked an arm around him, is rolling the both of them over so Cas is on top. Dean wants to crack a joke about angel strength but he’s too turned on. Cas is kissing down his neck, his chest, still trying to unbutton Dean’s button. Finally he manages it, with a triumphant little hum, and tugs them down slightly below Dean’s hips, kissing his hipbone.

“Whoa, hey,” says Dean, so aroused he can barely form a sentence. “You wanna—are you sure?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “Please.”

Dean can’t argue with that. He physically can’t, because the language part of his brain is short-circuiting. He puts a light hand on Cas’s head, strokes his hair. Then Cas is sucking his dick.

Dean closes his eyes and leans his head back. It feels good, feels really good. And if he keeps his eyes closed he can pretend it’s—well, somebody else. A woman. He tries that. Then he realizes for sure he doesn’t want to. He wants it to be Cas. It feels so good to have Cas touching him, Cas’s hands, Cas’s warm, wet mouth. He looks down, runs his fingers through Cas’s hair again, and Cas looks up at him with those eyes.

“Fuck, okay.” Dean sits up on his elbows. “Gettin’ kinda close there. Do you—do you want—” He’s not even sure what he’s asking.

Cas sits up too, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Dean has to look away.

“Oh, I—” says Cas. Neither of them can choke out a decent full sentence. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Dean says, realizing it’s true as he says it. He wants Cas to feel good. He wants to make Cas feel good. He sits up, leans forward, kisses Cas, who makes a small surprised noise. “Let me.”

He pulls Cas in a little closer and reaches down to unbutton his jeans (his own jeans, he thinks with some surreal quality). It takes him a second, and he feels Cas start to smile against him mouth.

“I’m drunk, okay?” Dean huffs. “Normally I’m good at the—you know. Unbuttoning. Unhooking. Unzipping.”

“Mm,” Cas says dreamily as Dean finally gets the button undone. “I believe you.”

 _Well,_ Dean thinks, _all right. Time to give a handjob._

Tentatively, he touches Cas, who sighs and closes his eyes. Dean keeps going.

“Dean,” says Cas, tilting his head back, moaning quietly. “Oh, fuck, Dean.” He looks up, reaches out a hand to touch Dean again, then pauses, asking for permission with a look. Dean nods.

It doesn’t last much longer after that. Their mouths are together when Cas’s breath hitches and he says, “Dean,” then says, “Dean, Dean, Dean,” urgent and reverent. He leans his face into Dean’s neck and groans, his own hand slowing. After a moment of panting into Dean’s shoulder, Dean’s hand on the back of his neck, he sits back up, eyes somewhat glazed over. Then he’s back at work with his mouth. Dean finishes almost immediately.

“Jesus,” Dean says in a daze. Cas wipes his mouth again, takes off his jeans but leaves on his underwear. He sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed, facing Dean, leaning back on his hands. He nods thoughtfully.

“Was that,” he says. “Was it good?”

Dean can’t believe Cas would even ask.

“It was so good,” he says. “Come here.”

He kicks his jeans off too, pulls the covers down on the bed, pats the space next to him.

Cas scoots up hesitantly, lies down next to Dean with his arms crossed over his chest, like he’s trying not to touch him. He keeps looking to Dean, looking away, looking back.

Dean isn’t sure what to say, what to do. He’s not really a cuddler. But Cas looks so nervous, and it’s Cas, and Dean wants to reassure him—make him believe that everything will be okay. How can Dean make somebody else believe that when he doesn’t even believe it? He settles for draping an arm over Cas’s chest, burrowing down into his pillow.

“Cas,” he mumbles. He suddenly understands that he’s falling asleep, the way it can hit you only after a night of heavy drinking and hooking up. This is one of the only familiar feelings of the night. “Where did you learn to do that? The pizza man?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cas says. He’s completely serious. Dean snickers into the pillow. Then there’s a long silence as Dean fades in and out of wakefulness.

“You’re good,” he says. “You’re good, Cas.” He means so many different things.

The next thing he knows, he’s startling awake in the dark, in an otherwise empty bed. He starts to call for Cas but as his eyes adjust, he sees Cas’s shape under the covers in the other bed, totally still. He stays awake just long enough to feel an ache—the loss of Cas from the bed, the worry that Cas hates him, the panic of having done what he’s done at all.

Then it’s morning and Dean is blinking awake, vaguely hungover but alive.

“Oof,” he says, sitting up with effort. Memories start to piece together in his brain and he takes a deep breath. Pushes them away. He looks over to Cas, who’s still curled up in the bed by the wall, fast asleep and snoring.

He takes a shower, shaves, gets dressed, makes coffee, sits down to do some research. Cas is still asleep. Dean thinks about waking up him but doesn’t want to face him.

Finally, around 10:30, Cas rolls over.

“No,” he says.

“No… no what?” Dean asks, alarmed. He turns around, leans his arm on the back of his chair.

“That’s all,” says Cas. He pushes himself to a sitting position very, very slowly, blinking hard all the while.

“Oh, you’re _hungover_ ,” Dean says, both false and genuine realization dawning on his face. If Cas is this hungover, there’s a chance he doesn’t remember last night. Dean doesn’t know right now if that would be a good or a bad thing. “How are you?”

“Intolerable,” Cas groans, rubbing his hands over his face. Dean thinks about cracking a joke but decides it’s not the moment.

He thinks hard about what to say next. He could bring it up. Or: he could not bring it up, just wait to see if Cas says anything.

“So…” he says, swinging back around in his chair and standing up. “Last night, huh?”

Cas gazes up at him, an almost cartoonish pout on his face, his forehead crumpled, his eyes narrowed, looking totally bewildered and tormented. Dean gets more and more nervous before he realizes that Cas didn’t actually seem to process the question. He comes and sits on the side of his bed nearest Cas, putting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers.

“Hittin’ you hard?”

Cas grunts in affirmation.

“I need to shower,” he says, his voice sounding the most Batman-like it has in years.

The process is slow, but he makes it into the bathroom, shuts the door. Dean exhales loudly. He returns to the laptop.

He gets no more work done because he’s thinking: What if this is the thing that fucks everything up? What if Cas gets too attached? What if _Dean_ gets too attached? What if Cas actually hated it? What if it wasn’t actually as good as Dean thought it was, and he remembers more of it, and it freaks him out? What if they can’t even look at each other anymore? What if Cas wants nothing to do with him?

Eventually Cas comes out of the bathroom, dressed but disheveled, still looking ashen.

“I… threw up,” he says. “Perhaps I should stay in today.”

“Shit,” says Dean, and his impulse is to go to Cas, to comfort him, to care for him, but he doesn’t. He’s not sure if that’s a good idea. He’s not sure if Cas wants him to. “I guess so.”

Today, Dean has errands he doesn’t need much help on—grabbing some books from the town library, taking their clothes to a laundromat. There’s a lot more laundry to do now that they wear the same set of clothes. Dean makes an internal note to grab Cas some new stuff while he’s out, now that he has cash. It’s Sam buying him the clothes, Dean reasons, which he would do if he was here, so it’s not just Dean wasting all his money. Anyway, he doesn’t _need_ Cas today. It’s fine if he stays in the room. So why does it feel so bad, the idea of leaving him alone all day? Then again, maybe it’s good not to be around each other right now.

He collects the laundry in a trash bag while Cas gets back into bed, fully clothed, yet again.

“See you later, champ,” Dean says, bag slung over one shoulder like a disgusting Santa Claus. Cas is already asleep.

* * *

Dean returns around 5 PM with a trash bag full of clean laundry, two massive tomes about the local occult, four burritos, and a 5-pack of t-shirts from Walmart. Cas is sitting up in bed, knees pulled to his chest, watching cable news.

“Back in the land of the living?” Dean says, tossing the shirts onto Cas’s bed. Cas picks up the package to inspect it and his face softens.

“My own shirts,” he says. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean gulps, taken aback by the sincerity in Cas’s voice. “Dinner too,” he says, dumping the fast food bag unceremoniously onto the motel desk.

Cas plods over, grabs one burrito, and takes it back to his bed. His eyes return to the TV.

“Did you sleep?” Dean tries, following suit, sitting down on his own bed, facing Cas. He takes a bite. “Are you feeling better?” Everything he could possibly say feels like a landmine but he can’t just say nothing.

“A lot better,” Cas says, mouth full. “Still tired.”

“It’ll get ya,” says Dean, shrugging. He takes another bite, chews it slowly. When he swallows, he says, “Well, sorry I got you so wasted. Wasn’t trying to kill you.”

Cas smiles, but it looks like there’s a different expression underneath it.

“I had a good time,” he says. He glances sidelong at Dean. Then he puts his burrito down on the bedside table. Cas hasn’t left a meal unfinished since he got back. Cas hasn’t left _two_ meals unfinished since he got back. “I had a very good time.”

So he does remember. Right? That has to mean he remembers.

“That’s great!” Dean says as nonchalantly as he can manage. “Me too. A very good time.” He nods, taking another big bite. After a time, again very casually, he says, “Do you happen to, uh. Is there any kind of—you know—"

“My memories are intact, yes.”

Dean’s jaw sets instinctively. He nods. Cas doesn’t look at him.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

A hundred different feelings cycle through Dean and he only knows names for like four of them: fear; guilt; anger; relief. Arousal. So five. Hunger is no longer one of them, at least, so he puts the burrito down.

“Are you… okay?” Dean doesn’t know whether to get closer or farther away, whether to ask or stop asking. His hands hover awkwardly in the air, forming a kind of parentheses.

Cas grabs the remote, turns off the TV. He leans back on the headboard and folds his hands over his stomach, looking pensive.

“I think that depends,” he says.

“On what?”

“If you’re okay.” Cas turns his head towards Dean, a measured and searching look on his face.

Dean laughs. He’s not sure why, but he laughs. Cas looks scared, then confused, then upset, then resigned.

“I’m okay,” Dean says. “Hey, I’m great. I promise.”

Cas regards him suspiciously. “Great?”

There are many, many things Dean could say. He falls back onto the bed, sighing loudly, hands lacing over his stomach too. It’s not that he wants to lie. He just doesn’t know what the truth is.

“I don’t know, man,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “Last night was…”

No words come to mind. The room is completely devoid of sound.

“We shouldn’t have done it,” Cas says decisively. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a big part of Dean that thinks he shouldn’t push it—that Cas regrets it, of course he regrets it. Why wouldn’t he? It’s weird. Sleeping with your best friend—the person you’re pretty much trapped in a room with for the next two months at least—in your newly human body, super drunk, after just returning from a long absence from Earth that was instigated by your own confession of romantic feelings towards that very person. Cas is the one who would hardly touch Dean last night afterwards. Cas is the one who got back in his own bed in the middle of the night.

He sits up and sees Cas sitting there, as still as Dean’s ever seen him. Suddenly something shifts. He remembers what Sam said a hundred times at the house: _He loves you. He’s still in love with you._ Dean knew that, logically—it’s not like he hadn’t run through the last words Cas said to him every day, a thousand times a day, for months. But until this moment, it hadn’t quite hit him. Cas is still just afraid of coming on too strong, of pushing him away. Cas only told Dean he loved him because he thought he would never see him again. And now here they are.

This revelation pushes Dean to his feet. He takes the two steps to Cas’s bed and sits down there, then shifts his legs up onto the bed, crossed at the ankles. He leans his head back on the headboard too so that their bodies form parallel lines.

“You know how much I care about you,” he says.

From Cas, a short, dry laugh, so short and dry it’s mostly just a quick exhale.

“It’s increasingly apparent that we don’t need to discuss this,” Cas says. Then he shakes his head, barely. “I really thought—I thought things had changed. I thought your prayers meant something had changed. That was stupid of me.”

“No, Cas, I—fuck.” Dean rolls over onto his side to face Cas. Warily, Cas turns his head to face Dean. They stare at each other for a few moments. Then Dean sits up again and Cas follows him like a reluctant shadow. “Would you listen to me? I meant it. I meant all of it. But this is—this is new for me, okay? This is hard.”

“What do you mean?” Cas says, squinting.

Dean makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

“You are,” he starts, trying to choose his words carefully but knowing they’re going to fail him anyway, “basically the most important person in my life. It’s you and Sam. The fact that you’re here means everything to me. And I wish I didn’t have such a hard time showing it. I wish I could wake up every day and treat you how you deserve to be treated. And I’m—I’m working on it. I am. Because I meant it when I said I would do anything to keep you here. I need you. I just can’t buy that you would still need me after everything I put you through, you know? I keep pulling shit like this and you keep coming back for me. And I—” He stops to look up at Cas, who is staring at him with surprised but cautious adoration, and he feels even worse for a second, but then he leans forward to cup Cas’s jaw in his hand. “You are so full of _real_ grace, and _real_ mercy, and you hardly even know it, and I don’t deserve you. You’re a better man than me and everybody I’ve ever met. And even if you weren’t I’d still—because it’s you. It’s always you. So I’m glad last night happened, okay? It was good. Because you’re good. And every second I’m with you is better than every minute I’m not.”

Cas places his hand firmly over Dean’s, holds it there.

“You’ve never said anything like that in front of me,” he says, his eyes outlining Dean’s entire face.

“What?” says Dean. “Of course I have. When I prayed to you all year—and in Purgatory that one time—”

Cas shakes his head.

“I wasn’t there. I was listening but I wasn’t there in front of you.” He drops his hand and Dean pulls his away slowly. “Dean, you have to learn to tell me what you’re thinking when I’m here. You can’t pray to me anymore. I won’t be able to hear you.”

Dean is quiet. He’s never thought about it like that before.

“You can’t keep waiting until things get bad to tell me how you feel.” Cas looks away, looks around the room. “I’m here now. For as long as you’ll have me. And you can’t expect me to guess what you’re thinking. I thought I had… I thought we had made a mistake. If I don’t know how you feel, how can we move forward?”

“I promise, Cas,” Dean says before he knows what he’s saying. “I promise I’ll do better.” He puffs his cheeks out in a deep exhale, and Cas gives him a light, relieved look that isn’t quite a smile. “Jesus,” he says. “This is tough, huh?”

“Sometimes,” says Cas. Something about this answer strikes Dean’s heart with incredible force, and without thinking, he leans forward and kisses Cas gently. And then he thinks, _well, if not now, then when?_

“I love you,” he says, touching his forehead to Cas’s. It’s almost physically painful to say, but he knows he means it once it’s out of his mouth. It’s been a long time since he last said it to anyone and it was a long time before that too. But there’s no point, he realizes, in not saying it now. The Empty isn’t coming back to snatch Cas for being happy. He knows Cas loves him, and Cas knows that Dean feels—he knows that Dean _feels_ about him, obviously. It’s no secret, not anymore. So there’s no point in trying to treat it like one.

“I love you,” Cas says back, in almost the same intonation, as if he’s repeating Dean for clarity instead of saying it himself. Then again, with more solidity: “I love you.”

Cas wraps his arms around Dean, rests his head on Dean’s shoulder, and they sit there like that for a while, still and silent. Eventually, Dean pulls away, clears his throat.

“Okay,” he says. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”

“That would be nice,” says Cas. Dean grabs his burrito and the remote from the bedside table and notices Cas’s burrito sitting there.

“Are you gonna finish that?” he says, gesturing to it with his head.

“I don’t think so,” says Cas. “I’m not very hungry.”

“Damn,” says Dean, throwing an arm around Cas and taking a bite from the burrito in his other hand. “Maybe that hangover’s finally gonna kick your human digestive system into gear and save us some money.”

Cas shrugs, but Dean can feel that his shoulders are relaxed. Dean turns the TV back on and flips until he finds a black-and-white Western, which they watch in companionate quiet until Dean starts to yawn. He gets up and gets ready for bed, brushing his teeth, sticking the extra burritos in the ice chest and hoping they stay edible. When faced with the decision of which bed to get into, he gets into his own, but Cas doesn’t seem bothered.

“Goodnight, Dean,” he says, exactly the same way he said it at Sam’s a couple nights ago.

“Night, Cas,” Dean says. He turns off the last lamp.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's up friends........ i'm back and ready to absolutely forget that 15x20 happened at all!!! that being said, content warning in this chapter for an event that significantly mirrors [redacted biggest 15x20 spoiler] but i reiterate: EVERYBODY'S ALIVE (AND PROCESSING THEIR EMOTIONS) UP IN THIS B*TCH AND THEY'RE GONNA STAY THAT WAY
> 
> cw also for discussion of addiction and internalized ableism by dean, king of the internalized -isms and -phobias (he's working on it)
> 
> finally, we made another playlist to go with the first half of this chapter! behold, the destiel road trip playlist (best played on shuffle): https://rb.gy/tyu1bv

On the road, things aren’t much different—just happier. Everything feels new. For several days in a row, almost every other song that comes on the radio or any of Dean’s cassettes—“Livin’ On a Prayer,” “I Wanna Know What Love Is,” “Faith”—causes Cas to make a thinking noise.

“Thoughts on the music?” Dean says finally.

“I’ve never thought much about song lyrics before,” says Cas, “but these all seem… appropriate.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I feel very—” He pauses. “I feel very connected to most of these lyrics. It’s as if they’ve been written for me specifically.”

Dean tries to suck back a smile but it turns into a full-blown laugh. Cas has never been a human in real, requited love before; until now, he’s never listened to a song and thought, _how do they know?_

“That’s just how songs work, man.” He reaches over and rubs Cas’s shoulder. “They’re universal. Everybody in love thinks every love song is about them.”

They do all the dumb road trip stuff Dean never really felt interested in doing with Sam: stopping in at dilapidated Midwest amusement parks and non-haunted tourist traps; going to the drive-in movie to see _Creature from the Black Lagoon_. They spend hours upon hours in 24-hour diners, once staying so long to talk after a late dinner that they just stick around for breakfast too. When they drive past a baffling billboard in Tennessee—a plain white background with an image of a crown of thorns and elegant black text reading _IsHeInYou.Com_ —they laugh so hard and for so long that Dean nearly has to pull over.

“Depends on who _he_ is,” Dean says, catching his breath, while Cas continues to cackle. “Probably one of us had him in us, just statistically.”

A few weeks later, they’re checking into a new motel in West Virginia. Cas is gathering supplies from the car when the girl at the check-out desk asks Dean, “One bed or two?”

“Uh,” says Dean. He glances towards the door. “One bed, please.”

They’ve been doing the two-bed thing since they had the discussion, and they haven’t talked much about it since, but sometimes they kiss—like yesterday morning, when Cas made the coffee and kissed Dean on the cheek as he handed him a mug—and sometimes, as they’re falling asleep, Cas will say “I love you” so quietly Dean’s pretty sure Cas thinks he’s already asleep. But the past two weeks have been nice, really nice, and Dean has been thinking for a couple days that maybe he’s ready to try having sex again—even ready to start coming home at night falling asleep next to Cas, without a side table and a couple lamps between them. He figures this is the least subtle way he could demonstrate those thoughts without saying them out loud, which he doesn’t really feel like doing.

When they make it to the room, Cas doesn’t put anything down.

“They’ve only given us one bed,” he says. “I’ll go back and request a different room.”

“Not so fast,” Dean says, holding out a panicked hand. He thought Cas would be happy but he doesn’t even seem to realize what’s going on. “It’s supposed to just be one.”

“Wh—” Cas tilts his head.

“I just got one bed,” Dean says again,” raising his eyebrows just slightly. “For us to sleep in.”

“Oh.” Cas looks at the bed, then at Dean. Then his eyes widen. “Oh.”

Dean presses his lips together, trying to get any sort of read on Cas’s feelings about the situation. Did he fuck up somehow?

Cas puts the bags down, then looks at the cheap watch Dean bought him from a Ross Dress for Less.

“We’ve gotta get going,” he says. “We have a meeting with the coroner in twenty minutes.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, trying to read Cas’s expression. There’s nothing. Totally inscrutable. He gives up. “Okay. Let’s get going.”

They’re out late that night—first the meeting, then a couple leads, then a showdown with a full-blown rugaru. By the time they get back to the motel, it’s past midnight and they’re both disgusting, sweaty and bloody and a little burnt-smelling. Dean lets Cas shower first and spends his whole shower racking his brain for ways this could break bad. Maybe he misread somehow. Maybe this is too fast, even though they’ve barely touched each other in two weeks. Dean wanted slow too but he’s starting to go a little crazy, waking up every morning and seeing Cas bleary and shirtless, going to bed with him not ten feet away, Cas’s voice vibrating in the soles of his feet all day every day.

When he gets out of the shower, Cas is in bed, reading a copy of _Slaughterhouse-Five_ he picked up from a haunted used bookstore a few towns back.

“You want spoilers?” Dean says, standing at the foot of the bed in his towel.

Cas looks up. “No thank you,” he says. Dean thinks he sees a smile forming. He puts on boxers and a shirt and gets into bed, leaving as large a margin between their bodies as he can. He lies there, staring at the ceiling.

A few minutes later, Cas finally puts the book down. “Are you all right?” he says.

“What? Me?” Dean scoffs unconvincingly. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve been acting strangely today,” Cas says. He presses his lips together. “I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t realize that you had gotten us one bed on purpose. It just took me by surprise.”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. Look, I—I should have asked first. I can go get another room if you want.”

“Of course not,” says Cas, rolling over to face Dean. “I thought I had pressured you.”

“You thought—” He rolls over too, their faces inches apart. “Man. What a pair we are, huh.”

“I just didn’t want you to think I expected anything of you.” Cas sighs, but his voice is sincere. “I’m happy with what we have.”

“I’m happy too,” Dean says. He grabs Cas’s hand under the sheets. “I mean that. I just—you know.” He wants to say something like _I liked having sex with you, I want to do it again_ , but he can’t bring himself to do it. Why not? It’s not like he’s a fucking virgin. He’s a grown-ass man and he can talk about sex like an adult. “I enjoyed… what we did after the bar the other night. I’d like to try it again. Sometime.” Great. Fucking nailed it.

“I’d like that too,” says Cas, moving forward slightly. Dean leans in and pauses. Cas does the same. Then they do it at the same time, which results in a kiss, slow and sleepy.

After a few minutes, they both pull away, Cas saying, “I don’t know if I can tonight,” at the same time Dean is saying, “Maybe we should sleep first.” They stare at each other. Then they both laugh.

Dean leans in to give Cas one more goodnight kiss. Cas hums against his mouth.

In the morning Dean wakes up to yet another empty space next to him, and for a second, in his stupor, he drags the palm of his hand across the sheets up and down the bed.

“Cas?” he says.

“Morning, Dean,” says Cas’s voice from across the room. Dean sits up, rubbing his eyes, and when his vision clears he sees Cas, half-dressed, making the coffee.

He looks sweet, standing there in jeans and a yet-unbuttoned flannel—with assistance from Sam’s cash, he now personally owns 5 plain t-shirts, one pair of jeans, two flannels, several pairs of underwear, a watch, a belt, one pair of black boots, and (for undercover purposes) a suit from Goodwill that Dean took to an old lady in Kenosha to get tailored for fifteen dollars. All the essential parts of a man’s wardrobe, in Dean’s opinion. Looking at him standing there, Dean thinks about how much things have changed in the few weeks since Cas has gotten back. How little. Cas has been shaving (to Dean’s minor disappointment) and he got a haircut last week, so now he’s back to looking like regular old Cas. Just in different clothes. Dean kind of misses the old uniform, he’ll admit, but there’s still something about seeing Cas in hunting clothes that feels right, or at least wrong enough to be worthwhile.

“I’m starving,” he says once he’s stared enough. “Let’s go.”

At breakfast, Cas orders a normal amount of food: a bacon and egg sandwich, another cup of coffee. The hangover from hell really has seemed to level out his appetite over the last couple weeks.

“What’s the plan for today?”

“Pretty slow day. We don’t need to head out until this afternoon. Next up—” Dean checks his notepad on the table. “Gambier, Ohio. Looks like we might have a djinn on our hands.”

The waitress comes and sets the food down in front of them. For a few minutes, they eat, discussing case details. From the jukebox in the corner, “Love Shack” by the B-52s begins to play.

“Oh, this is a classic,” Dean says. “You know this one?”

Cas isn’t paying attention—he’s licking the spoon from his coffee, absently, kind of obscenely. Dean clears his throat. Crosses his legs.

“Earth to Cas,” he says. Cas blinks and drops the spoon back in his mug. By then, though, the damage is done. “Do you… Do you wanna get out of here?”

“I’m almost finished eating,” says Cas, suddenly concerned. “What’s the hurry?”

Dean closes his eyes, hoping that maybe he’ll simply disappear instead of having to explain this out loud to Cas. When he opens them, he’s still there.

“I’d like to go back to the room,” he says, slow and deliberate. “For… reasons.”

“Reasons.” Cas considers this. Then his eyes light up. “Oh,” he says. “Sexual reasons?”

At that moment, a waitress walks by, turns her head, raises her eyebrows. Dean wants to sink into the ground. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Yes,” he hisses. “Yes. Now do you wanna go or not?”

Cas nods vigorously. Dean tosses a twenty on the table.

“You can do this in the morning?” asks Cas as they head out the door.

“Oh, babe,” says Dean, mostly kidding but kind of not. “It’s preferable.”

Back in the room, after, they’re huddled up in bed.

“It’s interesting to think about,” says Cas. “I’ve never had sex with the same person twice.”

Dean feels a flash of pity that turns into self-pity when he realizes that he hasn’t had a lot of repeats either—mostly it’s been one-and-done deals for him. He kisses the top of Cas’s head.

“Yeah,” he says. “I haven’t really either.”

Cas looks up at him, bemused. “But you’re… experienced.”

“Not with sticking around.”

“Oh,” says Cas. “I guess I assumed—I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “This whole thing—what we’re—“ He can’t quite figure out what to say. “It’s kind of new to me.”

“Sleeping with a man? A relationship? A relationship with a man?”

“All of the above,” Dean says, mostly to get Cas to shut up. “Everything that’s not one-night-stands and hook-ups and only going back to someone when you have nowhere else to go.”

“You have somewhere else to go?”

“Nowhere else I wanna go,” says Dean. He rubs Cas’s shoulder. Thinks about saying _I love you_ again but decides maybe once a month or so is good for now. Cas knows. That’s the important thing.

He hasn’t been thinking about it like that: a relationship. Cas is right, obviously. They’re spending every waking hour together, going on what might be considered dates, kissing, now having sex more than once. It had rarely occurred to Dean before this that you _should_ have sex more than once—either you hook up once, twice, and never again, or you enter sexless marriage territory. That hadn’t necessarily been the case with Cassie or Lisa. But with Lisa, sex hadn’t been one of the major factors, not the second time around, not after a couple of weeks. It was about that domestic fantasy: about caring and providing for her, for Ben, about the house, about trying to forget what happened to Sam, about slotting himself into the apple pie life whether there was room for him or not. And there wasn’t. Not then. Maybe now. He can hardly let himself think it.

“If we’re sharing private and vulnerable information,” Cas says, “there’s something I should tell you.” He pulls back and gets out of bed, heads toward a pile of clothes, not the ones they just took off. Starts digging around. Dean has no fucking clue what Cas is looking for, what he’s about to say. A nervous feeling pools in his stomach. What, is he, like, cheating somehow? Is he gonna pull out some angel coin that says _surprise,_ _your fall expires in ten years?_

Cas pulls out a knife. Dean stares.

“What?”

“It’s Sam’s demon knife,” says Cas, seeming a little irritated that his big reveal didn’t work. But as he brings it closer, he’s right: the serrated edge, the symbols on the side. Sam’s knife. Dean had been wondering where this was, why Sam didn’t offer it to him when he went back out on the hunt. Sure, there aren’t really demons on Earth anymore, and Dean has plenty of other weapons, including a few angel blades collected over the years. But it’s about the sentiment.

“When did he—why? What?”

“When we visited,” Cas says. He looks kind of ridiculous, standing there in just his boxers, holding the knife. He sits on the edge of the bed. “Sam took me into his office and told me I needed to be able to protect myself. So he gave me this. But he said that if I lose it, he’ll find it, and then he’ll use it to kill me.”

This isn’t what Dean means to say next, but it is what he says next: “But why didn’t he give it to me?” Embarrassing.

Cas shrugs. “He said he was planning on keeping it in retirement, but I needed it more than he did right now. Again, he emphasized its safe return.”

“Huh,” says Dean. “How did you hide this?”

“Successfully.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean waves dismissively, brings the covers up over his face. “Put it away.”

* * *

The rest of the summer moves by fast, like an 80s movie montage with a punchy soundtrack (thanks to Dean’s excellent music curation skills and some luck with radio stations). There’s more sex and a lot of it—in motel rooms, public bathrooms, alleys behind bars, the Impala. For the most part they’re doing it at least once a day, sometimes twice, occasionally more. Dean had a lot of sex before, but this is kind of insane. Cas doesn’t ever seem to get tired of it. It’s like his hunger for food got replaced with an insatiable appetite for sex. And, though Dean is reluctant to admit it, it’s some of the best sex he’s ever had. Cas’s enthusiasm and willingness to try new things overcomes any lack of experience.

But it’s not just the sex: They keep going to drive-in movies and janky theme parks, random county fairs in the small towns they pass through, bars and even the occasional gay club (though none hold a candle, in Dean’s estimation, to the fine establishment in Water Valley, Oklahoma). They see fireworks in Pennsylvania on the Fourth of July. Stargaze on the hood of the Impala. Dean teaches Cas how to shoot pool and play mini-golf. At the shooting range, Cas surprises Dean by somehow suddenly being an incredible shot. They go swimming under a waterfall in Arkansas. They’re usually laughing. Sometimes they even dance in the motel rooms, to music real or imaginary. They’re having a good time. Dean can’t think of a time he was this happy. He doesn’t know if he’s ever actually been happy like this.

The hunting is still the big thing, but to Dean is almost starts to seem supplementary, which scares him. Who is he if hunting isn’t the thing that matters most? Who is he if he’s having a good time, and it’s not because he’s killing something or saving someone or preventing the world from ending? He doesn’t want to go home. Then he’s just home. Even if Cas is there. And who’s to say he will be? Maybe once they get off the road, Cas will realize he’s not actually in this—that what he’s looking for isn’t in Dean, is out there somewhere. Or Dean will get weird again and push him away for good.

Sometimes Dean does get annoyed—when Cas tries to touch him a little too intimately in front of other people, not in a sex way but like they’re a couple. Which he guesses they are. But other people don’t have to know that. Sometimes it’s that they’re undercover and Cas, who still has some trouble lying to strangers even by admission, forgets that they’re supposed to be serious agents, not lovestruck teens. Other times it’s just that Dean feels like it’s nobody else’s business. That he worries the wrong person might see them holding hands or something. So at lunch, when Cas will sometimes reach his hand across the table and place it gently on top of Dean’s **,** Dean will worm his hand out from under. He can tell it bothers Cas but neither of them say anything.

Again: Mostly it’s good. Really good. Dean is just starting to feel, yet again, like maybe he’s not cut out for this. That something bad is on its way, that Cas will get taken away again, everything will get taken away again. Dean doesn’t get to be happy. He never has. So why start now? The world has always been a collection of sharp objects waiting to impale Dean Winchester. It’s only a matter of time until something gets him.

But sometimes, they’re lying in bed, after sex or late at night or in the early morning, and Cas will touch his face like that’s the only way to communicate the depth of his feeling, and Dean knows that for the first time in his life he’s in love, real love, that this is the thing he’s been waiting to find, the thing he tried to convince himself so hard he didn’t need. Now he just has to not fuck it up.

* * *

Finally it’s the next-to-last night out on the road before they’re supposed to head back to Lawrence. Dean feels a pit in his stomach. Cas had tried to hold his hand in public again today and he’d snapped at him. People looked—more people than any time Cas has ever touched him in public. So Dean feels real fucking bad about it. But he didn’t know how to apologize, and now it’s building up inside him.

In the motel room, Cas hasn’t spoken to him for a couple hours—is just reading in chilly silence. Dean is watching TV, periodically turning up the volume to see if Cas will look up. He doesn’t.

“Cas,” Dean says finally, muting the TV. “Look, I—” _Just say you’re sorry_ , he thinks, _just fucking say it._ “You know I feel weird about holding hands and stuff in public.”

Cas shuts his book, turns around.

“You’re ashamed of me,” he says simply.

A strangled noise comes out of Dean’s throat. That’s not what he was expecting.

“Wh—no,” he says. “What? Of course not.”

“You’re ashamed to be seen with me. I embarrass you. You don’t want anyone to know we’re together.” He stands, his hands balled into frustrated fists at his sides.

“Cas—” Dean holds up his hands, as if to say _hold on_ or _I surrender_ or both. “That’s not what’s going on.”

Cas is more upset—like, normal person upset, not raging angel or confessional despair or mourning a death—than Dean has seen him since… Well, since he left the bunker after Rowena died.

Cas walks over, sits at the edge of the bed, looking distressed.

“Do you realize, Dean, that when you told me you loved me earlier this summer, that was the first time anyone had ever said they loved me?”

“Well… Well, yeah,” Dean says, confounded. “You’ve never dated anyone else. Besides Meg I guess. And she was really more of a fling for you. Plus not very affectionate.”

“Dean,” says Cas seriously. “I mean at all. Ever.”

Dean blinks at him. “What? That’s ridiculous. We’ve known you for over ten years.”

“I know.”

“One of us must have said it at some point.”

“Not once,” says Cas. “Never.”

Dean’s chest starts to feel uncomfortably tight.

“It’s not just the words,” Dean says. “I’m bad at words. You know that. I—we showed you in other ways.”

“Like kicking me out of the bunker? Multiple times?”

“Cas.” Dean stands up from the bed, begins to pace. “Clearly you’re just now starting to work through some stuff, which I get, but I think we’re past all this.”

“So you get to decide when we’re past it?” Cas is totally still and calm, his hands folded in his lap. “Because it seems like that usually results in nothing getting resolved.”

“Wow,” says Dean, “okay,” and that’s his defense.

“For years you made me feel—you made me feel unwanted. And I just need to know that if you want me, you truly want me.”

“Unwanted?” says Dean, crossing his arms, then uncrossing them. “Jesus Christ. All those years, you were my best friend. You were—”

“If you say _like a brother_ ,” Cas says, and he doesn’t have to finish the sentence. A silence. Then Cas says, “If you ever felt differently than that, you had years to tell me. You never did. I returned to Earth on a hope.”

“Why the fuck does that matter now? We made it, right? We’re here?” Dean gestures as if to say, _see?_

“When I first decided to fall, I was worried—I was worried that you would stop caring again when you knew that I’d forgiven you. Or that you had ulterior motives for praying to me, that you needed something. If the last few years are any indication, you only ever seem to need me when you need something from me.”

“So you felt used,” says Dean. “Get in line. Meanwhile Sam and I were being puppeteered by your dear old dad.”

“You told me I was the thing that went wrong in your life. I only made that deal with the Empty because I thought I would never be truly happy again.” Cas is looking up at Dean, his eyes as big and honest as Dean has ever seen them.

“Where are you _pulling_ this stuff from, Cas? We’re over it! It’s fine now!”

“How can we be over it when we’ve never discussed it?”

Dean says nothing, just shoves his hands into his pockets.

“I loved you the whole time,” says Cas. “Up to a certain point, everything I did, I did because I thought it was the right thing to do. For you. And almost every time I tried to show you that I loved you, or to fix things, it just made things worse. So forgive me if the fact that you now refuse to reciprocate my attempts at affection makes me… _anxious_.” He spits out the last word like a curse.

Dean sits in a chair, jaw set. He’s quiet for a long time. Then he says something he knows is the wrong thing to say even as it’s coming out of his mouth: “Do you ever wish we could go back to the way things were before?”

“Before what?” Cas says, colder and calmer than ever. “Before we were together? Before we were intimate with each other? Before I came back to Earth? Before we—before we became close, before we met, before I raised you from hell? What, Dean?”

Dean exhales hard through his nose. He feels it happening. He’s fucking it up. As always. He knew it was too good to be true. But then he looks at Cas and remembers how much he wanted this, begged for this. He tries to reel himself back in.

“No, I just—there has to be a time when we were happy, and we weren’t hurting each other, and neither of us hated each other or thought we hated each other, and things weren’t so complicated. There must have been a time like that, right?”

“Things have always been complicated for us, Dean.” Cas is starting to melt, to look more tired than righteous again. “I don’t recall any time when there wasn’t something coming between us.”

“Guess you’re right.” Dean sighs again. “So what’s coming between us now?”

“We are,” Cas says without hesitation.

They both sit and think about that for a while. Dean wants to say something but everything he thinks feels sour and wrong. He wants to be able to say, _Cas, I love you, I forgive you for everything, I know you forgive me too._ But he’s Dean Winchester and it doesn’t work like that.

Eventually they get tired of the silence. Cas turns the TV back on, gets ready for bed. He doesn’t ask Dean to get another room, and Dean doesn’t offer.

“Goodnight,” says Dean when Cas turns the lamp out. It takes a moment for Cas to respond. He doesn’t say anything. In the dark, Dean feels a gentle kiss pressed to the side of his head.

* * *

The next day Cas doesn’t try to bring it up again. They pretend it’s a normal day for hunting, but it’s not—not just because of this weird, unresolved tension, but because it’s the last day of the summer road trip. Tomorrow they’ll be back in Lawrence and Dean will be done hunting for the foreseeable future. It doesn’t sound possible.

They’re packing in the early evening—separate bags, since Cas finally got his own small wardrobe and a duffel bag so he wouldn’t have to share valuable luggage space with Dean anymore—when Cas says, “So tomorrow, after this, you’re…”

“You know I’m headed back to Lawrence for now,” Dean says, stuffing a shirt in his bag after doing an insufficient job folding it. “That’s the deal with Sam.”

“Right,” says Cas. He doesn’t say anything after that. He’s quiet, like maybe he expects Dean to say something. Dean doesn’t know what he wants him to say.

“We’d better head out,” he says, checking his watch. “Full moon soon.”

A few hours later it’s pitch black in the woods and they’re crunching around in the leaves with flashlights. They’ve barely spoken. This is how it fucking ends, Dean thinks. Not with a bang.

There’s a bang.

“Gunshot,” Cas says. Dean holds a finger up to his lips, then holds out his arm in front of Cas, steps out in front of him.

In a clearing, he sees two figures, both standing, both women. One is holding a gun, visibly shaking even at a distance in the dark.

“Hey,” he shouts, and he barrels forward. “What’s going on here, ladies?”

“She’s gonna kill me,” says the one holding the gun. “She’s gonna kill me, she’s gonna eat me.”

“Is that true?” says Dean, turning to the other one. “Pretty crass of you.”

She smiles, bares her needly, yellow teeth.

“Maybe I need dessert too,” she says.

Dean turns to the first girl, obviously human. “That thing got silver bullets in it?”

She shakes her head. Her face crumples.

“Then drop it and get the hell out of here.”

She does; she bolts and the gun makes a _thunk_ on the ground. Dean is about to pick it up—he’s not even sure why, it just feels unsafe to have it lying on the ground—when the werewolf grabs him from behind.

“Dessert first,” she says into his neck. He elbows her hard enough to send her stumbling back, then dives several feet out of the way.

“Heads up, Cas,” he shouts. Cas is still hovering at the forest’s edge, waiting for an in. “Come on.” Cas rushes in right as she stoops to grab the gun, stabbing her in the back of the neck with the demon knife, and Dean faces away to catch his breath for just a second. Just a second.

The moment the shot rings out Dean is already face-down on the ground. His vision starts to go blurry but he hears her say, “Is that all you’ve got?” Dean sees it all in his mind’s eye like he’s watching it, though he can’t quite raise his gaze above the grass. Without saying anything, Dean knows, Cas is pulling the angel blade out of his sleeve, stabbing her in the chest. He hears the thump of her body hitting the ground. Cas is on his knees next to Dean.

“Dean,” he’s saying, “Dean. Dean. No.”

Cas’s hand is bloody, grasping at Dean’s shirt, turning him over, carefully, carefully. Dean notices that it’s his own blood, pooling around him. This is it, he thinks. This is it.

“Well,” he says. He coughs with the strain of speaking. He can’t tell if he can or can’t feel his lower body—if it hurts or if it’s just not there. “I didn’t think it would be today.”

“It’s not today,” Cas says. “It’s not today.” He touches Dean’s forehead with two fingers, caresses his jaw, puts his palm flat on his chest, every way he’s ever healed Dean, desperate for something, anything to work. When nothing does, he gasps like a dam has been broken in him, starts to sob. Dean has never seen him cry like this before. The only time Dean has ever seen Cas cry at all was the day he first told Dean he loved him, the day he was taken to the Empty for what they both thought was forever. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t protect you. I slowed you down, I—I distracted you. Dean, no, Dean.”

I have to be calm, Dean thinks. The thought feels like it’s floating above him. I can’t make this any harder on him.

“Hey. No. You listen to me.” He reaches up, touches Cas’s face. Cas is looking at him like he’ll never see him again. “This is not your fault. I—I slipped up, okay? Guess I got cocky. But I always knew I was gonna go out this way. I’m glad it’s like this. You know I always wanted to go out swinging. And out here on the road with you—I can’t think of anything better.”

Cas sobs again, grasps Dean’s hand so tightly that his fingers go numb.

“You aren’t going out like this,” Cas says. “This isn’t what you want. You don’t want this.” A silence. The sound in Dean’s ears of his lungs struggling to breathe. “This can’t be it.” Dean hears what he’s not saying: Without you, I have nowhere to go.

“Go to Sammy,” Dean says. “He’ll take care of you.” Still putting everything on Sammy. Still asking Sam to do the hard work, clean up his messes. God, Dean thinks. It’s humiliating. He’s going to die humiliated in the woods, comforting someone else, killed by a random werewolf like any old mediocre hunter, not even bitten but shot with a regular gun. The fate he was destined for. He killed God and this is still what he gets. If he had died fighting Chuck then at least it would have meant something. If he had died saving someone. Doing anything but just standing there. “You don’t need me, Cas. You can have a good life without me.”

“Don’t lie to me. Not now. What do you want, Dean? Tell me what you want. It’s not this.”

Dean has never been asked that before. As his field of vision gets a little darker around the edges, he decides Cas is right. There’s no reason to lie now. No reason to pretend.

“I want to stop hurting you,” he says, and then a low groan comes from his mouth. He didn’t know he was making a sound.

“Dean, this isn’t your fault.” Cas grabs his head with both hands, looks him straight in the eyes. In the dark of the forest, under the starlight, Cas is glistening, the sweat on his forehead, the crazed, desperate look in his eyes. “Please. None of this is your fault.”

“I want—I want to—” Dean gulps, tries to take in a deep breath, but it hurts too much. “I want you. I want to wake up every day and you’re there.”

“Then I will make that happen. I’ll give it to you. Anything, Dean. It isn’t over.”

Dean shakes his head.

“I’m dying, Cas,” he says. “I’m on my way out. Go back to Lawrence, be with Sammy. You can have the Campbell house if you want it. God knows I hated it there. Alone in that house.” He starts to get choked up. Fights it. Who cares if he doesn’t want to die like this? It’s what was always going to happen. In front of Cas, in front of Sam. Every day of his life he woke up knowing this was coming, knowing he’d watch everyone around him get dead one by one, then he would get dead too. It’s almost worse this way. He almost made it. He almost had it. “Tell Sam I—tell him I love him. And I love you. You live a good, long life, okay? You live for me.”

“I’m not going to let that happen. Dean, I am not going to let that happen. I love you.”

Then Cas is on his feet, pacing, Dean can see Cas’s legs moving around him, there’s a noise, he’s saying something but not to Dean, Dean tries to speak again but can’t, his eyes, his back. It all goes away.

* * *

Dean wakes up in a hospital. The first thing he says, before he even looks around to see who’s in the room: “Heaven’s had a serious remodel.”

It hurts to speak, to even think about moving. But he feels like he’s alive—this is probably still Earth. Nothing to indicate otherwise. The IV in his arm seems so pitifully real.

“It’s not Heaven.” He looks toward the window. Sees Cas, rumpled and swollen-eyed, sitting up from a deep slump. “Hello, Dean.”

“Cas,” he says. “So you did save me.”

“I called 911,” Cas says, rubbing a hand over his face. “I should have—I didn’t even think about it. I should have called earlier instead of trying to heal you. I know I’m human. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just sat there, I just sat there while you—"

“No,” Dean says. “No. You were trying to be there for me. And you fuckin’—” He looks around. “You did it. You saved me. Again. Here I am.”

Cas finally gets out of his chair, moves over to sit at the foot of the bed. He places a gentle hand on Dean’s leg.

“Did you want to die?” he says, expression impenetrable.

“No,” says Dean again, quiet.

“Are you sure?” says Cas. “Are you sure you’re not looking for a way out of this?” He hears the way Cas says _this_. Cas means _you and me._ He looks placid on the surface but Dean can tell he’s radiating something else—anger, despair.

“No,” he says, more forceful this time. “No, Cas, of course not. I just…” He’s so tired, in so much pain. He’s alive but Cas is unhappy with him, probably going to leave him after this. He can’t help himself: he starts to cry. “I really thought it was over. I’ve been waiting on it to be over for so long. And just when I’m starting to feel like I—just when I have something worth keeping… I thought that was it, you know? I thought that even though we killed Chuck last year, even though we’re finally supposed to be free, this was the universe finally telling me, no, Dean. Good things don’t happen. Not to you.”

Whatever was radiating from Cas dissipates and he leans forward, gathering Dean’s shoulders in his arms as carefully as possible, kissing his forehead, kissing his cheek, his mouth. He touches their foreheads together.

“Good things do happen. Good things do happen. We happened. You happened to me, Dean. You are the best thing—the _only_ thing that has ever happened to me. There is nothing without you. Because of you, I have a family.”

Dean sobs. It hurts. He sobs again, reaching up an exhausted arm to touch the back of Cas’s head.

“I love you, Cas,” he says. “I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You deserve to be saved,” Cas says. “You deserve better than to die on the ground, on a hunt. You still haven’t learned, after all these years. You’ve saved the world, over and over. You’ve saved so many people. You’ve saved me. And I will save you every time.”

“After we fought, I—” Dean can barely understand the sound of his own voice, so thick with tears and medication and fighting through the pain. “I thought you wouldn’t want to come back with me. Back home. I thought you’d hate me.”

“I could never hate you, Dean.” Cas pulls away, leaving a hand on Dean’s face. “Believe me, I’ve tried.” Dean coughs out a laugh. “Of course I want to come with you. Even if I did have somewhere else to go, I would still come with you.”

“I was serious,” says Dean. “Every day. I want to wake up next to you every day.”

Cas intertwines their fingers, squeezes Dean’s hand.

“If that’s what you want, then you already have it. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you plan for the future. Good things happen, Dean.” He says it again, like a prayer. Like he could make it come true. Like it already is.

“Does Sam know?” Dean asks suddenly, a brick wall of worry crashing down on him.

Cas looks away but nods. “He’s on his way. I called him once you were stable. I didn’t want to give him news without knowing what kind.”

Dean nods, holds his jaw tight. He doesn’t know how to face Sam. If he had died, Sam probably would have been embarrassed. It’s embarrassing.

“Hey, I’m kinda hungry,” Dean says. “Mind grabbing me something to eat?”

Cas is only gone a few minutes. That’s all Dean needs. Just a few minutes to close his eyes and think.

* * *

When Sam arrives at the hospital he’s inconsolable. Cas stays a few minutes to make sure it won’t overwhelm Dean, then leaves the room without drawing much attention to himself.

“I wasn’t there,” Sam says through tears, kneeling at the side of Dean’s bed. “I let you go out and hunt alone and you almost died. You could have died.”

“But I didn’t,” says Dean. He doesn’t want Sam to know how much it hurts, how much it scared him. Sam is already so upset. “I’m okay, Sammy. I’m here.”

“I never should have let you go out on the road,” Sam says. He leans his forehead down on the bed, then sits up again. “After everything with Chuck, we’re vulnerable. There’s nothing just… arbitrarily protecting us anymore. And we wouldn’t have been able to bring you back since the gates are closed. I let you go knowing you could just, like, get shot and die. Get stabbed and die. Have a fucking heart attack or something.”

“You didn’t know that for sure,” Dean says, troubled by the length of Sam’s list. “And anyway, I’ve been thinking, and either way, I don’t really care.” Sam scrutinizes his face. Dean shrugs and continues. “Like, yeah, maybe I could die any minute. But you know what? I’m not dead. I’m alive. And I’m about to start living like it.”

“Whoa. Who is this and what did he do with Dean Winchester?” He sniffs loudly. Rubs his face. Sits next to Dean on the bed. He finally seems to calm down. “What do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m giving up hunting for good,” Dean says. The thought keeps recurring to him: This is the end. And he gets to decide what that means. “Not least because I already got most of the bastards this summer. Makes the decision a little easier.”

“That’s good, Dean,” says Sam, grabbing Dean’s arm and giving it an affirming squeeze. “That’s good.”

Even though Dean knew the end of the summer would be the end of hunting, it never quite seemed real. He’s been suspended midair with Cas for so long that this whole thing—the argument, the werewolf, the hospital—feels like a major crash to Earth. The hunting part of his life is over. He knows that now. It was gonna be over either way, whether he survived or not.

“I’m comin’ home,” he says. “And I’m bringin’ Cas with me.”

Sam nods thoughtfully, still rubbing at his eyes. “How’s that going?”

“Good. Good.”

“Is that why you haven’t been answering my calls? Too busy?” Sam waggles his eyebrows and Dean puts his face in one hand.

“Jesus, man,” he says. “Privacy, okay?”

Sam cracks up. “Kidding! You think I wanna hear about your sex life with _Cas_?”

The phrase “sex life with Cas” sends Dean for a loop despite the fact that he does, in fact, have a sex life with Cas.

“You don’t wanna hear about it, I don’t wanna talk about it,” he says. “But yeah, everything’s good. This whole thing was kind of a mess, but we’re coming back from it.”

“Like I said at the house,” says Sam. “I’m happy for you. After everything, this feels right.” He pats Dean’s arm and leans forward over his own knees, folding his hands, all hunched over. He looks so big and so small at the same time.

“Glad you came, Sammy,” Dean says. “Sorry you had to.”

He turns his head back just far enough to look at Dean, smiles. “Wouldn’t miss your retirement party for the world, man.”

Soon there’s a quiet knock at the door, and Cas peeks his head in.

“The doctor is here,” he says.

“How are we doing?” the doctor says, trailing in behind Cas.

“Doin’ great, Doc,” says Dean. “No more bullet in me, so I’m feeling pretty good.”

The doctor turns toward Sam.

“And you are?”

“His brother,” Sam says hurriedly, leaning forward to shake the guy’s hand. “Hi.”

“You’re very lucky to have a full team here to support you, Mr. Winchester.” Dean has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Cas had panicked and given them Dean’s real information, which Dean doesn’t really fault him for—it’s not like they’re on the run, not anymore, and they can just say he got mugged. He’s lucky he had his real ID on him. It’s just weird at this point to hear somebody he doesn’t know say his own name back to him. This must be what it’s like to just be a person out in the world. Not a hunter.

He means it when he says, “Yes. Very lucky.”

“Your recovery is going as smoothly as it could,” the doctor says. “You’re very hearty. But your blood pressure is incredibly high and you’ll want to keep an eye on that. We can discuss more later. For now, just keep resting, and we’ll keep you on the pain medication.”

“Nah,” says Dean. Sam and Cas both look at him. “I don’t need the meds anymore. I can handle it.”

The doctor looks at Dean over the tops of his glasses.

“You may think your pain tolerance is fairly high, but I assure you, Dean: It’s not high enough. Unless you have a legitimate reason for refusing the medication, I think it’s in your best interest.”

Dean shifts around in the bed on instinct but it hurts—he hisses through his teeth. The doctor nods at Cas, who stood the moment Dean showed any indication of being in pain.

“Make sure he takes it, would you? In the long term, again, you’re very lucky. You’re looking at high mobility. You may have some chronic lower back pain. Clearly you’re active and in good shape, and it shouldn’t take away from any of your hobbies unless you’re a very serious athlete.”

“Not anymore,” says Dean with a laugh. The doctor doesn’t get it.

When the doctor is gone, Sam asks, “Why don’t you want the meds?”

Dean looks up at the ceiling. Part of it is that he wants to believe he can survive anything without help—that years of getting shot and beat up and choked and stabbed and possessed and whatever have calloused him to all physical pain and he can take it. The other part is that he’s still thinking about how much he’s been drinking the past few years. How he would wake up and drink, fall asleep drinking, drink straight from the liquor bottle, handle weapons drunk around Sam and everybody. How eventually he dumped the holy water out of his flask to put in whiskey instead. How the day after Cas was taken by the Empty, he woke up on the floor, surrounded by beer bottles. He’s thinking about Bobby.

He shrugs. “Just seems unnecessary.”

He’s in the hospital for a week (Dean winks at Sam when the doctor cites “abnormally quick recovery for a serious but non-fatal gunshot wound”) and getting progressively antsier. He hates being in the hospital. He nearly got reaped up in one of these places once. And all the times Sammy has been in the hospital, and the doctors, and the old people, and the ever-present sense of simple, regular human death—it just gives him the heebie-jeebies. It’s nothing like _Dr. Sexy, M.D._

Even under Cas’s mindful watch, he gets away with taking the bare minimum dosage on his meds. Both surprisingly and unsurprisingly, Cas’s bedside manner is overall excellent, except that he reports dutifully all the disgusting things he’s seen while wandering around the hospital halls.

“I’m gonna need you to stop talking about vomit,” Dean finally says, trying to get his Jell-O down. Cas looks surprised but doesn’t say anything else about vomit for the rest of Dean’s stay.

Sam keeps telling him maybe he should take a few more days, that he he’ll handle the drive better if he’s a little more recovered.

“It’s a three hour drive,” Dean says, over and over. “I’ll be fine. Besides, I’ve bled all over that car and she always gets me where I need to go. Jesus, you forget about all that?”

Sam puts his hands in his pockets, looking sheepish.

“It’s different now,” he says. “You’ve just gotta make it home, you know?”

Dean knows. “Gotta make it home and renovate that damn house with a broke back,” he sighs.

“You can always come back to the guest room until you’re feeling more up to it.”

“No way,” says Dean. “I’m coming back, I’m comin’ back on my terms. The bedroom’s already done, so no big deal there.” He points at Sam. “But you’re gonna be the one pulling up that musty carpet in the living room.”

“Can do,” Sam laughs.

Dean looks over at Cas, who’s been nodding off in a chair at 2 PM. Cas hasn’t been sleeping much—has been trying to stay up all night to watch over Dean like he used to, even though the human element means he’s now physically incapable of doing so. He’s still got the motel room, technically, but he’s spent about a good five minutes there since Dean arrived at the hospital. Dean keeps telling him it’s okay, he can go rest, sleep in a real bed—besides, keeping a room they’re not using is basically hemorrhaging money for no good reason—but Sam and Cas go out to talk alone sometimes and once, Dean overheard Sam saying that Cas should stay at the hospital if he wants, but it’s important to have a place to rest if he needs, and that Sam could take over Dean duty for a few hours, no worries. That’s what he’d said. _Dean duty_. Fucking ridiculous.

But it makes his heart hurt, how much Cas wants to be here for him. How hard he’s trying. Dean doesn’t even know if he’s trying at all—maybe it really is just second nature to Cas to care for Dean, whatever the cost. The thought makes him nervous in a way he can’t quite pin down.

Cas blinks awake, clearing his throat and pulling his shoulders back. Dean smiles, tries to hide that he’s smiling.

“We’re talking about Dean’s house, Cas,” says Sam. “Did Dean take you through last time you visited?”

“No,” says Cas, his voice still thick. Dean’s heart skips a little in his chest. Or maybe it’s just the dangerously high blood pressure. “Dean hasn’t really spoken about it with me since his prayers.”

“That’s because it’s barely a house,” Dean says. “Right now it’s a bedroom, a bathroom, and a series of dank mausoleums masquerading as every other room. I shouldn’t be renovating it, I should be condemning it for asbestos.”

“Come on,” says Sam. “It’s not that bad. Yeah, nobody’s lived in it for a while, and yeah, it’s a fixer-upper, but it’s got good bones and it’s in a solid neighborhood. Plus it was paid off fifty years ago.”

“There’s the upside,” says Dean. “Paid off. Thanks for the reminder.”

“Cas, are you—” Sam starts, and then he looks at Dean, and then he looks back at Cas.

“What,” Dean grunts. “Just say it.”

“I was, uh, I was gonna ask if Cas is excited to, you know.” Sam scratches the back of his head. “Have a house and everything. But I shouldn’t assume what sort of plans you guys have made.”

“Oh, he’s with me,” Dean says, turning to point one finger at Cas. “Whether he likes it or not now.”

Cas looks down, obviously trying to staunch a big smile. “I’ll accept it,” he says.

Sam blows out a short, relieved breath.

“I think it should be nice,” Cas says, crossing his legs at the ankle, still looking pleased. “The Bunker wasn’t unlike a house, so I do have a frame of reference.”

“No comparison on the water pressure, though,” Dean says. He and Cas both nod wistfully.

Dean tries not to think much about the Bunker—it’s still there, and he and Sam had lived there alone for a while before Sam and Eileen moved in together, before Sam convinced Dean to come stay in their guest room. Dean thought about returning a couple times but could never bring himself to do it. Too big, too empty. Too many old memories. The last time he stepped foot in there the losses were palpable in the air: Kevin, Mom. It just doesn’t feel like home anymore. The Campbell house doesn’t either, to be fair. But he guesses he owes it to Sam to try.

The next day he’s discharged officially. He can walk okay but they wheel him out in a wheelchair anyway, even though he puts up a fight about it.

“I’m serious,” he says when the roll it into his room and ask him to sit. “I can walk up out of here on my own two legs. I don’t need the fuckin’ chair.”

“Please, Mr. Winchester,” says the nurse, haggard. “It has nothing to do with you. It’s about liability.”

He does it, but he grumbles under his breath the whole time. “Makin’ me feel like Bobby,” he mutters. “Again.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam and Cas exchange a look that’s equal parts concerned and amused.

When they’ve dumped him in the passenger seat of Baby and everybody has said their see-you-very-soons to Sam, he turns to Cas.

“You ready?” he says.

Cas leans over the console, kisses him on the forehead. It feels like signing on to something new.

“I’m ready,” says Cas, and he turns on the engine.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WHAT'S UP FOLKS!! sorry for the delay on this one—holidays, finals, etc etc. but i'm back in business and we have officially reached Domestic Sitcom Territory. can't wait. ALSO BE WARNED..... THERE IS ANOTHER SEX SCENE. if u actually know me i would like to apologize. ANYWAYS: ONWARD INTO SEASON 16

Three hours later, they make it to Lawrence. Dean sleeps most of the ride. He wakes up to Baby pulling to a slow stop in the driveway of the Campbell house, and for a second, he thinks he’s dreaming, thinks maybe he’s dead. Cas starts reaching to wake him up, but realizes he’s already awake.

“We’re here,” Cas says with both a finality and a tenderness that make Dean’s sleep-addled brain feel a little mushier.

“Welcome home,” says Dean.

Cas insists on carrying the bags in—Dean shouldn’t be doing strenuous physical activity, says the doctor; the doctor is in Missouri and can’t tell him what to do, says Dean—but while Cas is inside Dean looks into the trunk and sees the sigil painted on, sees what’s left of the monster-hunting weapons: angel blades, firearms, a baseball bat. Salt. A lot of it he’d lost along the way this time, and whether that’s due to carelessness or a subconscious spirit of spring cleaning, he can’t say.

“Dean,” Cas calls from the doorway. He shuts the trunk and heads inside.

Cas is surveying the living room, hands on his hips, looking confounded. It’s not a great set-up, Dean will admit. He’d had to throw away pretty much everything when he moved in because the house had been totally abandoned since about the mid-eighties. Now there’s just the disgusting shag carpet, the old wooden dining table with three chairs he found on the side of the road, the secondhand recliner set up in front of a TV.

“You live like this?” Cas says.

“Are you surprised?” says Dean, collapsing into the recliner.

“Actually, yes.” Cas walks over, kneels by the side of the chair. Takes Dean’s hand. “You’re generally quite fastidious about your living spaces.”

“Fastidious,” Dean mumbles. “I mean, you can’t say it isn’t clean.” He looks at Cas, who’s inspecting his face. Somehow Dean is still surprised every time he looks in Cas’s eyes just how big they are, how blue, how tired, how emotive. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to having Cas see right through to the core of him, like a one-sided mirror.

“It’s clean,” Cas says, obviously hedging around something else. “It’s clean because there’s… not much. Weren’t you living here before this summer?”

“Just a couple months. Wasn’t spending much time here.” Dean stands carefully—he’s feeling pretty good, all things considered, but he keeps being afraid he’ll knock something loose. What exactly, he isn’t sure. “It’s hard to decorate when the whole house needs to be gutted first. And then I decided to go back out on the road and—you know.” Dean doesn’t want to say the obvious—that this isn’t home to him, probably never will be. He should be grateful, he reminds himself, that he has a place of his own to come back to. He and Cas.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you the bedroom. It’s a little less depressing.”

The bedroom, at least, is a habitable space that looks like someone lives in it. He brought most of his stuff from the bunker over: the bed and mattress (memory foam), the quilt, the dresser, the desk. The record player and all his records, a few posters on the walls. He already ripped up the carpet, just in here, so he knows there are genuinely nice hardwood floors underneath, and he can’t wait to refinish them after all is said and done. The attached bathroom has new tiles, a new tub, new counters. All in all he’s pretty proud of the work he’s done so far. He just dreads having to do the rest of the house.

When he turns around, Cas is smiling.

“This looks more like you,” he says. He walks over, kisses Dean. Kisses him again. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he says. “I’m glad we’re here.” Another kiss, long this time, both their mouths opening. Dean is acutely aware of all the sex they haven’t been having for the last week; after the past month or so, the difference is noticeable to say the least. Sure, he’s been sore and medicated and laid up in a hospital, so he hasn’t been thinking about it much. But he’s been thinking about it enough. And now, with his hands tucked into Cas’s back pockets, he’s thinking about it more.

He pulls away just enough to tap their foreheads together, brings up a hand to touch Cas’s face. Rubs his thumb along Cas’s cheek.

“We gotta get across town for dinner,” he says.

“We don’t even have a little time?” Cas says in a manner Dean might describe as _demure_ , which, weirdly, is working for him. Cas’s various forays into appropriating sex appeal have had mixed results; usually it’s hottest when he’s not trying at all. But he’s learning.

Dean gives him one last chaste kiss, pulls all the way away. “I told Sam we’d be over at 5, and it’s 5:30. He’ll have an aneurysm.” He pats Cas’s shoulder hard. “Cold shower,” he says.

As he leaves the room, he hears Cas muttering, “If we have time to shower, I don’t see the problem.”

Fifteen minutes later they’re both changed and ready to go. Something about the way Cas is dressed in his new clothes reminds Dean of the way Cas used to dress—it’s the tucked-in shirt, the jacket that’s slightly too big. As Dean pulls out of the driveway, he brings Cas’s hand up to kiss his knuckles. None of it feels real yet: Having Cas at this house, in this town, taking him to dinner with Sam and Eileen, no hunt on the horizon. All of it supposed to be permanent.

Eileen greets them at the door because Sam is cooking. She hugs Dean, her hands light on his upper back, not even close to his wound but still gentle.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she says when she pulls away, looking earnestly into Dean’s face. “Welcome home.”

Dean smiles, gives her arm a reassuring squeeze, and she moves on to Cas, who she nearly tackles. Cas, taken off guard, wraps his arms around her slowly, like she might be a mirage. Dean sees why Cas might be surprised; it’s a pretty different greeting from last time, polite as she may have been. At this point, though, Dean knows Eileen well enough to know that when she’s in, she’s all in. Whatever they’ve talked about over the summer plus whatever Sam texted her throughout the last week must have sold her on Cas’s return. And besides—not like she can’t sympathize with coming back from the dead.

“Welcome to Lawrence!” she says, pulling back and patting Cas’s chest playfully. “For good!”

“Thank you,” Cas says, and with that Eileen turns on her heel and heads toward the kitchen.

“Sam is making pasta,” she says over her shoulder, not checking for responses.

Dean rubs his hands together. “Smells great, Sammy,” he shouts. “What is it?”

“Vegan rotini with roasted vegetables,” Sam shouts back.

Dean grimaces as he walks into the kitchen. “Never mind,” he says. “I take it back. Smells like leaves.”

“Come on, man, you’ll like it.” Sam pulls a tray out of the oven piled with squash and zucchini.

“You’ve pulled this vegan crap on me before,” says Dean, suspicious. “Why don’t I get, you know, a big, hearty welcome home dinner? Burgers, hot dogs, bacon. Come on.”

“You’re recovering,” says Sam. He turns to lift his eyebrows at Dean, places his hands squarely on the counter. “You need nutrients, not extra cholesterol. And after what they said about your blood pressure?” Sam shakes his head. “You’re lucky I don’t put you on a meal plan myself.”

“Jesus,” says Dean. “Now that’s a nightmare. Forget bein’ shot.” He looks to Cas, laughing, but Cas just gives him a shrug.

Dinner’s not so bad after all, but Dean physically recoils when Sam breaks out the nutritional yeast.

“That’s crossing a line, man. What’s that shit even for?”

“It’s like cheese.” Sam rolls his eyes and Eileen giggles.

“There’s real cheese in the world, dude.”

“Yeah, well, we do meatless Mondays.”

“I don’t see any meat here,” Dean says, gesturing at the table. “And if there was cheese I still wouldn’t see any meat here. Cheese is not a meat. What are you on?”

“First of all,” says Sam, bringing his elbow up on the table and lifting one finger, “it’s environmentally friendly. Now that we’ve saved the world a couple times, I’d kind of like to keep it around. Second—” He brings up a second finger. “It’s healthy.”

“Cas,” says Eileen, “how do you feel about the nutritional yeast?”

“I don’t mind it,” Cas says, his mouth totally full. “Thank you Sam.”

Dean wonders how a person can be so rude and so polite at once.

“Anyway,” says Sam, sitting back in his chair, passing Eileen a meaningful look. “Do you guys have any plans for the evening? Gonna show Cas around town, maybe see a movie?”

Cas swallows his food. “Well,” he says, “we’ll probably have sex.”

Dean and Sam, who had both happened to take a sip at the same time, fully spit out their water. Eileen looks down at the table with such force it’s like someone has yanked her head down. Cas looks between them all, totally blank.

“You can’t, uh,” Sam stutters, wiping at his mouth, “well, I mean, I guess you _can_ —and I’m really, uh, happy for you guys, seriously, congrats, but—I just, that’s not really anything we need to know. Ever. You don’t have to tell people stuff like that. Even family. Hey, _especially_ family.” He clears his throat loudly and throws Dean a desperate look, Eileen’s eyes vacillating between them.

“Private information,” Dean says firmly, and that’s all he can muster.

“Oh,” says Cas, brow furrowed. “I see. Apologies.”

Eileen looks around the table again. Starts to laugh. Then Sam. Dean and Cas look at each other, Cas just a little red in the face now that he knows to be embarrassed, and Dean thinks, _well, it’s not like he was wrong._ They both start laughing too.

After dinner they head into the living room again—no beers this time because Dean’s not supposed to drink on his meds, even though he assured Sam and Eileen he wouldn’t be too jealous if they cracked a couple open for themselves—and it’s starting to feel like a tradition: all four of them, huddled up in their respective chairs and couches, just shooting the breeze.

“So,” says Sam during a short lull in conversation, like he’s been waiting for an in. “Now that you guys have, you know, the rest of your lives… What are you gonna do?”

Dean puffs his cheeks out in a long exhale. “Big fuckin’ question, Sammy. No fair.”

“You don’t have to know everything yet,” says Sam. “I’m just saying. Next steps? Career plans?”

“Sam,” says Eileen, reaching out to pat his arm. She signs something to him that Dean doesn’t understand but gives him a look Dean does understand: _They just got back._ Sam doesn’t sign anything back, just gives her a half-shrug.

“I don’t know,” says Dean. “I haven’t thought about it in a while.” It’s true. Other than the couple of times when supernatural entities have forced him to live out his fantasies to keep him subdued, he’s never really put the effort into imagining a future for himself that doesn’t involve hunting.

Sam looks at him, into him, one eye narrowed, then nods once, as if intentionally stepping away from the conversation.

“You’ve got time,” he says. “You’ve still got the house to work on. That’ll take a few weeks to really get rolling.”

Dean nods, looks away, starts to chug his drink—realizes again that it’s just water.

“Cas, what about you? Any thoughts about jobs?”

Dean looks up to see Cas, eyes wide and concerned, staring off into the middle distance, his hands folded in his lap. Sam and Eileen both stare at him.

“I don’t want to work at the gas station again,” he says finally.

“I thought you loved the old Gas-N-Sip.” Dean pats him on the back, grinning. The back of Cas’s neck turns just slightly red. “Don’t I recall you saying something about finding meaning there? Dignity?”

“It fit my needs at the time,” Cas says, still not looking anyone in the eyes. “I just might rather have… a sitting job this time.”

“A _sitting_ job,” says Dean, but when he looks up at Sam, Sam is giving him a _shut up_ glare. Lots of nonverbal communication tonight. Whatever. Then he starts thinking: Is he being shitty? It becomes suddenly apparent to him that he’s being mean to Cas on purpose, and he isn’t sure why. Is it about the last time Cas was a human, all the baggage there? That lady from the gas station? About being jealous that Cas might have a job before him? That Cas is capable of a desk job and Dean—well, he probably isn’t?

“At least I’ll _have_ a job,” Cas says plainly, and for a second his tone strikes fear into Dean’s heart. But Cas is side-eyeing him in the way Cas does, three-quarters serious and one-quarter playful, eyes shining, head tilted slightly Dean’s way. Dean laughs and it’s also a sigh of relief.

“Oh, we can find you an office job,” Sam says, ignoring literally all of what’s happening in front of him. “No problem. I’ll do a little research and send some leads your way, and you can pick out what you like best. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” says Cas. “If possible, I’d really like to do something that helps people.”

Sam looks thoughtful for a moment. “Okay, like nonprofits, charities, that kind of stuff. Got it.”

“Nonprofits, helping people,” Dean scoffs before he can stop himself, and then tries to cover up with, “yes, they certainly do. Help people. Nonprofits.” Nobody notices, and if they do, thankfully, they’re ignoring him. He takes another sip of water to avoid having anything else unduly rude come out of his mouth.

In the car on the way home, Cas says, “I’m sorry for embarrassing you in front of Sam and Eileen. I didn’t consider… You know. Appropriate versus inappropriate.”

“What? No,” Dean says, reaching over to grab Cas’s hand. “One: That was hilarious. Wigged me out a little at first, but still. I probably set a bad example, you know, talking about all my exploits over the years, making you think sex was dinner table talk. Not so. Anyway, you live and you learn.”

“I live and I learn,” Cas repeats.

“Second,” Dean says, “I’m the one who should be sorry. I was weird to you all night—you know, talking about the gas station, applying for jobs, everything. I don’t know why.”

“Dean,” Cas says, but Dean interrupts him.

“Let me apologize, okay? Maybe it’s the meds, or I’m just tired or sore or need a drink, or whatever. But I’m gonna try my damnedest to stop being a dick to you for no good reason. Hey, give me a good reason and maybe I’ll be a dick again. But you know what I mean.”

Instead of saying anything, Cas brings Dean’s hand up to his face, kisses his knuckles, then his wrist. “I appreciate that,” he says eventually. “Thank you. It’s forgotten.”

“What’s forgotten?” Dean says as they pull into the driveway. He parks, leans in as close to Cas as his seatbelt will allow, smiling. Cas smiles back. They don’t even kiss—just look each other in the eyes for a long time. There is nothing else in the world like this feeling.

Finally they get out of the car and step into the house, into the mostly empty living room.

“Not much to do,” Dean says as Cas takes off his jacket. “We could watch—"

Cas is already kissing him, pulling him towards the bedroom.

“Hey,” he says, finally coming up for air, “okay,” and Cas pushes him up against the bedroom doorframe, grabbing his hips, kissing his neck. Dean’s not even sure how they made it that far. He untucks Cas’s shirt, starts unbuttoning. When they travel inside the bedroom, Dean shoves Cas up against the wall next to the bed, pulls back to look at him. God, he looks so hot, his shirt half-undone, his hair all messed up, looking at Dean like it’s the first time, every time. Dean kisses across his collarbones, then before he really knows what he’s doing, he drops to his knees.

“Dean,” Cas says, freezing. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Dean says, unbuttoning Cas’s shirt the rest of the way, kissing his stomach. This is one thing they haven’t done—they’d gotten in a groove over the summer where Cas usually used his mouth and Dean usually used his hands. And when they fucked, Dean was the one doing the fucking; it just felt more familiar that way. Less weird somehow. For some reason Dean could especially never get past the idea of sucking dick. It felt like the final frontier. Right now, though, it’s all he can think about.

“I—I didn’t think—”

“Don’t think,” Dean says, unbuttoning Cas’s jeans. “Don’t ask. Just do.”

Cas nods, still looking dumbfounded. He strokes a hand over the back of Dean’s head, says, “I love you.”

“Don’t—don’t tell me you love me. Just…” He puts his mouth around Cas’s dick, closes his eyes. He hears Cas’s head hit the wall.

He’s not totally sure what to do but it’s not as foreign as he thought it would be. He just does what usually feels good for him, and it seems to be working: Cas moans, one hand grabbing Dean by the back of the head, the other grasping at Dean’s still-sleeved upper arm, right where the handprint used to be. He doesn’t even think Cas knows he’s doing it. It’s just automatic. He’s so turned on he has to stop for a second to catch his breath.

“You’re so perfect,” Cas says, “so perfect, look at your mouth, look at you.” Sometimes Cas will do this—start babbling during sex, sounding so, so human. It’s different this time.

Dean looks up at him, says the first thing that comes to mind: “I need you.” He watches in Cas’s eyes as Cas totally loses his mind, shoves Dean’s head forward.

“Then keep going,” he says, voice dark.

So Dean keeps going. When Cas is almost there he grabs both sides of Dean’s head, pulls him in, then apparently has a moment of clarity.

“Is this—” he says, starting to sound concerned again through the haze of arousal. Dean nods vigorously.

So, after a second, Cas does it again, then again, then he’s fucking into Dean’s mouth, holding him still. He pauses for a split second and Dean takes back over, and then almost immediately Cas is coming in his mouth, moaning, clutching the back of his head with one hand and grasping the edge of Dean’s bedtable with the other. For a moment, they’re both still. Then Cas pets his hair again, says—like he has no idea what else he could possibly say—“Good, Dean. Good.”

Dean is breathing hard, leaning back on his heels. He swallows again, his mouth dry.

“Now tell me you love me,” he says.

It’s like a switch flips in Cas. He falls to his knees too, grabs Dean’s face. “I love you,” he says, breathless. “Oh, I love you. I love you, Dean.” He kisses Dean hard, over and over. Reaches down to unbuckle Dean’s belt.

When Dean is finished—it doesn’t take long—they both suddenly seem to realize they’re on the floor.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Dean says, but when he tries to stand, he can’t. His back hurts too much. “Fuck,” he hisses, doubling over. For a few minutes he’d forgotten about it. Cas looks mortified.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he says. “Maybe we shouldn’t have—”

“No, no, it’s good,” Dean says. He takes another deep breath. “Just help me up, would you?”

Cas drags Dean to his feet, helps him over to the bed. He starts taking off Dean’s shirts without being asked, then inspects the wound.

“Everything looks… intact,” he says, relieved but still ashamed. “Dean, I should have been more gentle with you. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Actually _you_ came over _me_ ,” Dean says. Cas tilts his head. “Never mind. Look, I—I wanted all that. Believe it or not, I loved that. So don’t feel bad. That’s crazy.”

“I—” says Cas again, but he doesn’t finish the sentence. He slides off his unbuttoned flannel, kicks off his jeans. Then he says, “What made you change your mind?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just decided I wanted it. And, hey, I was right.”

“Does all this have anything to do…” says Cas, and then he pauses like he thinks Dean will fill in the blanks. Dean leans his head forward, raises his eyebrows, questioning. “Does this have anything to do with your time in the hospital?”

“Literally how are these dots getting connected, Columbo?” Dean stands with great effort, trying not to groan like an old man. He doesn’t have much luck.

“I just thought maybe it was in some way about… control,” Cas says.

“Control?” Dean says, making his way into the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. He looks like a wreck, but at least he doesn’t have to see his reflection under the hospital’s unforgiving LED lights anymore. “If it was about control, then wouldn’t I be the one, you know, playing Christian Grey?” Cas stares at him. Dean holds out a hand. “Instead of Anastasia?” Nothing. “I’m just saying.”

Eventually, Cas stands and walks into the bathroom. Wraps his arms around Dean from behind, his lips pressed together in moderate, tender consternation.

“There’s a lot I still don’t know about human sexuality,” he says. “But I know when something’s up with you.”

In the mirror, they each make eye contact with the other’s reflection. Cas kisses Dean’s shoulder.

“Should we be more moderate in our sexual behavior?” he says thoughtfully. “Are we moving too quickly?”

“Too quickly?” Dean laughs as he turns around, takes Cas’s hands in his own. “Cas, baby, it’s been like twelve years. We’re honeymooning. I think we’ve earned it.”

Cas does that smile where one side of his mouth turns up all the way and the other side barely moves at all, doesn’t say anything. Dean kisses him on the forehead.

“I just don’t want to push you too hard,” Cas says. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“One of my favorite things about you is that you are never not making me uncomfortable,” says Dean. Cas squints, trying to figure out if that’s a compliment or not. “Look. You never push me to do anything. And besides, I like trying new stuff with you. It’s fine—it’s better than fine. Since day one with you, every day has been a fuckin’ adventure, and I don’t expect that to stop now just because we’re settling down.” He says it as a joke but suddenly it feels quite true. He can’t imagine a future without Cas in it, right here next to him—doesn’t even want to try. He feels settled. Maybe not in this house, hell, maybe not even in Kansas. But with Cas? Yes. It’s the only thing that makes sense, the only thing that has ever made sense, despite how little sense it actually makes. “And especially, you know, when I’m an asshole and I need to make it up to you.”

“Make it up to me? Not to look a _gift horse_ in the _mouth_ ,” he says, obviously proud of his human English idiom usage, “but I told you. There’s nothing to make up. Forgotten and forgiven.”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, but that don’t mean I don’t feel bad.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Cas looks Dean right in the eyes, and he feels discomfort tying itself up in his stomach. “Any of it?”

Dean pulls away, goes to turn on the shower. “Not really, no.” They’re both quiet for a few moments. Then Dean says, “I just don’t really know what I’d say.”

“That’s all right,” says Cas. He heads over to the doorway, stops, puts his hand on the doorframe. Turns to look back. “You have time to figure it out now.”

After Dean’s shower—his first real shower since he got shot, thank god—and as they’re getting ready for bed, Cas gets under the sheets and pats the space next to him, looking up at Dean with an earnest closed-mouth smile. For a second the room looks so much like the bunker that he feels physically transported, and his chest aches when he realizes he could have had this, he could have had this the whole time. He just didn’t think he could. _Home_ , he thinks. _Okay. Home._

Dean climbs into bed and leans against the headboard, turns his head to look at Cas, who’s still smiling benignly at him. It’s almost exactly like every night since they started sharing a bed on the road, except now it’s permanent. And the bed is a lot nicer.

“No switchin’ rooms at this motel,” he says. “Hope the accommodations are satisfactory.”

“I have what I need,” Cas says. He leans in for a kiss. When he pulls away, he looks at Dean with some curiosity. “Earlier,” he says. “You called me baby. I thought that was reserved for the car.”

“Well, that’s different,” says Dean. “The car’s _name_ is Baby. For you? A mere term of endearment.”

“Ah, of course,” says Cas.

“We’ll try out some other ones soon. I’ll hit you with ‘em when you least expect it.” He considers. “Maybe a _honey_. A _darlin’_.”

Dean was kidding about darling, but Cas’s eyes light up, then soften.

“Darling,” Cas repeats, touching Dean’s face. It sounds way better when he says it.

“Hey, okay. You can have that one.”

A few kisses later, Dean turns off the bed table lamp and rolls over. He feels Cas scoot in closer, his chest pressing against Dean’s back and his face in Dean’s shoulder, an arm woven around Dean’s waist. Cas’s breathing starts to steady and slow, and Dean knows he’s about to fall asleep, but he can’t stop himself from whispering, “Cas?”

“Hm?” Dean feels him adjusting in the sheets, lifting his head up slightly.

“What do we do now?”

“I think we go to sleep.” Cas’s voice is quiet and sleepy, vibrating right next to his ear.

“No, I mean… I mean when we wake up tomorrow. And the next day. Day after that.”

Cas takes a deep breath through his nose that tickles the back of Dean’s neck when he exhales. “We live,” he says. “We’ll work on the house, and we’ll find jobs that aren’t violent or degrading, and we’ll figure out a way to survive. We always have.”

Dean places a hand over Cas’s hand, resting on his stomach. Rubs his thumb along Cas’s knuckles.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says. “I’m glad you’re here to figure it out with me.”

Cas hums a reply, and in a few moments he’s snoring right into Dean’s ear. Dean wouldn’t give it up for anything.

* * *

The next morning, Dean wakes up with his arm slung across Cas’s chest, feeling warm and safe. _Memory foam_ , he thinks blithely. It’s so good to be back in a real, comfortable bed after months of motels and a week of hospital bed, and even nicer to be in a real bed with Cas. _Home_ , he tries thinking again, and it feels a little more right this time.

Nearly on instinct, he kisses Cas’s cheekbone, then his hairline, right at the temple. Cas makes an irritated noise, but when he blinks his eyes open and sees Dean looking at him, he makes an affectionate noise too, a soft little hum.

“Hey, blue eyes,” says Dean. He burrows his head back into the pillow, right next to Cas’s.

“If you’re referring to the Springsteen song,” Cas mumbles, only partially awake, “pretty dark reference.”

“Not that deep,” says Dean. “I just think your eyes are pretty.”

Cas pretends not to smile. “How did you sleep?” he says through a yawn.

“Rock-like,” says Dean. “Amazing. It’s a wonder what getting shot can do for you.”

“It could be the very nice mattress,” Cas says. “Or maybe you’re just tired from months on the road.”

“Or from months of awesome sex?”

“Maybe it’s the dramatic reunion with your best friend who’s been in love with you for many years.”

“Who you thought was dead,” Dean supplies, “don’t forget that part.”

“Yes,” says Cas. “Who you thought was dead.”

“Who _was_ dead,” Dean says, poking a finger into Cas’s chest, “but isn’t dead anymore.”

They look at each other for a moment, then crack up. Dean laughs so hard it makes his stomach hurt. God, what a stupid life. And it all lead up to this: lying in bed on a Sunday morning in his moldy, inherited house with the ex-angel boyfriend he convinced himself he didn’t love for over a decade, a healing gunshot wound from a werewolf in his back, his hunting career basically over, absolutely no clue where he’s headed next.

“Okay, I’m awake,” says Cas. “Shower.”

At breakfast—bacon and eggs à la Dean around the rickety little table in the living room—Cas keeps checking his phone.

“Who are you texting,” Dean says around a mouthful of toast, “the Pope? What’s so important?”

“It’s Sam,” Cas says, blinking up at him. “I don’t know why I’d be texting the Pope. He’s never had a direct line of communication to the divine.”

“Hence why you’d be texting him,” Dean says.

Cas narrows his eyes. Dean shrugs.

“Sam is sending me job listings,” Cas says, ignoring him, scrolling with concentration. “Accountant… Development officer… Director of Diversity and Inclusion…”

Dean tries very hard not to roll his eyes.

“It looks like they all require a college degree. I didn’t go to college.”

“No worries,” says Dean. “Sammy can forge you a degree. He can forge you an everything. You’re gonna need ID, a birth certificate…”

“Do you still have any of my counterfeit FBI identification?”

“Oh, that’s not gonna cut it.” Dean stands, grabs his empty plate and Cas’s, takes them into the kitchen, puts them in the sink. “You need real ID. Hell, I’m gonna have to start using _my_ real ID, and that’s gonna take some adjustment.”

Cas considers for a moment. “I suppose I could… adopt Jimmy Novak’s identity more fully. Claire stole the wallet years ago, but I can get a new license, and there must be a way I can claim his birth certificate for myself.”

“You sure you wanna go that route? Ol’ Novak’s probably presumed dead. Rightfully so. Might be weird if he suddenly showed back up.”

Cas shakes his head. “With Amelia gone and Claire an ally… I don’t think there’s anyone left to wonder about him. I’ve been able to impersonate him a few times without issue.”

“Yeah, but you don’t think it’s gonna bring up some questions when you show up to the courthouse saying, you know, _hi, I’m Jimmy Novak, I’ve been missing for years and I need a new license and birth certificate, please_?”

“You don’t think it would bring up questions if I were to show up in a form identical to a missing person and claim I had no previous identity at all?”

Dean opens his mouth, points his finger, but says nothing. “You got me there,” he says finally. “But, what, you gonna go by Jimmy now? I’m not callin’ you Jimmy.”

“I’m sure there’s a way to change my legal name,” Cas says. He puts his chin in his hands, gazes off into the distance. “Imagine. Me. Legally named.”

Dean watches, right then and there, from behind the kitchen divider, as Cas pieces together a life, a real life, maybe for the first time: a full name, first and last and maybe even middle, a home, a family. A place he belongs. Mostly things Dean is ashamed to admit he could have tried a little harder to give him all along. He clears his throat.

“Well, _James_ ,” he says, “you wanna head over to Sam’s and see what kind of paperwork he can do you for?”

Turns out, Sam can do him for a lot. Sam’s essentially been running a black market job market for ex-hunters since the end of the end of the world, forging and falsifying identifying documents to beget more legal identifying documents, matching up Apocalypse World refugees to their real world paperwork where possible, using his dozens of cell phones to serve as a job reference in basically every field. His own mortgage is totally illegitimate, which makes Dean feel a little better about the whole situation.

“Okay,” says Sam, shuffling papers, all his documents spread out on the kitchen table, “so you’ll need—” He checks his notes. “—birth certificate and social security card, and then you can get your driver’s license… Bank account, credit… Jimmy probably has a college degree… And we’ll get you registered to vote, assuming Jimmy’s registration has been purged since he hasn’t voted since before Obama was elected. If then.”

“Voter registration?” Dean gestures widely. “You kiddin’ me? Who needs to vote? You been votin’ all these years?”

“I’d like to have the option,” Cas says. “It seems important.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Cas,” says Sam, giving Dean a withering look. Dean takes a long sip of his lemonade. “We can talk politics when you’re a little more used to… people who aren’t us.”

“Oh, so now you’re gonna talk politics with him?”

“Dean, just because you’re, like, an anarchist—"

“Hey,” says Dean, moving his arm so fast that some of his drink sloshes out. “I don’t need a label. Cops bad, Nazis bad, death penalty bad. Boom. Just never had a permanent address to vote with.”

“What name do you want to use?” Sam says, ignoring Dean completely.

Cas looks at Dean, then at Sam, his head tilted in deep thought. “Cas,” he says. “Just Cas.”

Sam scribbles something down. “Okay,” he says, “you’re sure you don’t want Castiel? Might be a pain in the ass later if you change your mind.”

“I’m sure,” he says, gazing up at Dean. Dean feels it like an arrow through his heart: This is the name he gave Cas, and Cas wants to keep it forever, for good. No more _of God_. They aren’t of God anymore. They’re of each other.

“Yeah, okay. Might be weird to have the lady at the bank calling for _Castiel_. And then last name… Novak? Probably be easier that way. Trying to get them to change the first _and_ last name at once can look a little suspicious.”

“That’s fine,” Cas says.

Sam looks at him, then at Dean, who’s still recovering from experiencing an emotion.

“And, I mean,” he says, “if you want to change the last name later, you know, we can do that.” He clears his throat.

And now Dean is experiencing another emotion, one he pushes down very deep at once. He’s not going to think about marrying Cas right now. He can’t. Cas with a ring on his finger, Cas Winchester—Dean coughs. Coughs again. Keeps coughing.

“Are you all right?” Cas says, brow furrowed, reaching a hand out.

“I’m good,” he says, voice hoarse. “Just gotta. Be right back.”

It looks like Sam might say something as Dean is getting up, but he doesn’t. He turns back to Cas and asks, “Middle name?”

Dean locks himself in the bathroom, grips the counter, stares at himself in the mirror. Rubs one hand over his face. It’s fucking embarrassing. He can’t picture a future with Cas without having a meltdown. And it’s not that he doesn’t want a future with Cas—it’s that he wants it so, so much. He’s going to jinx it, he thinks. He’ll imagine it and it’ll make him happy and then it won’t happen, because he’s not allowed to have what he wants.

But he is—haven’t the past few months been proof enough of that? Things work out. Not all things, and sometimes it takes a long-ass time. But sometimes, some things work out. Sometimes, good things happen.

He still has to shove it down, the thought of marrying Cas. He needs to take this a day at a time. Right now, it’s fine as it is, and there’s no need to change it. Not like anything would be functionally different if they were married—in fact, it would probably be exactly the same. It’s just the word. Married. Married. Dean Winchester, married. To Cas. He rubs his face again, hard.

When he’s calmed down and he comes back out, Cas looks at him a little strangely, but doesn’t comment.

“We’ve decided on a middle name,” he says. “James.”

“I figured it’d be pretty easy to swing since that’s Jimmy’s legal first name,” says Sam. “And it’s a nice way to honor his, uh... sacrifice.”

“James,” says Dean. “Cas James Novak.”

“Hm,” says Cas. He presses his lips together. “It might take some getting used to. But it’s not terrible.”

“Good old C.J.,” says Dean, slapping a hand down on the table. “My good buddy C.J. Novak.”

Cas frowns.

“Okay, enough,” says Sam, rolling his eyes again. “Nothing’s changed, Cas. You’re still just Cas to us, if you want to be. We’re just covering our tracks here so you can get a job and everything.”

“Yes,” Cas says. “Of course.”

“Did you look over those applications I sent you?”

“I did.” Cas picks up his phone, starts scrolling through them. “I don’t know, Sam, I—I don’t think I’m qualified for any of these.”

“Sure you are!” says Sam. “Look, half the people who already have these jobs aren’t qualified for them. You’ll be fine. If you’d rather look in another field, though, we can do that.”

“Well…” Cas thinks for a moment. “What do you do?”

“I’m a paralegal.”

“What is that?”

“Good question,” says Dean, pointing at Sam, who rolls his eyes.

“It’s—”

“It’s like a lawyer but sadder,” Dean interrupts. “Lawyer junior. Sidekick lawyer.”

“Are you done?”

“I could go on,” Dean says. Sam keep staring at him. “Yeah. I’m done.”

Sam stares.

“The lawyer’s apprentice,” says Dean. “Okay. Okay. Go on.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Sam says, “for you, we’re probably looking at something a little less… specialized. An office job is a good impulse. I think we’re already on the right track. We just need to maybe get your resume together and figure out how to sell you.”

“A resume?” Cas glances up again, kind of despondently. “I don’t have anything to put on a resume.”

“Sure you do, man. You’re millions of years old and spent most of it working at the same place. Highly reliable.” He scribbles again. “We’ll just… you know, make it look like you’ve had a great history with long-term employment. Because you have.”

“I didn’t exit the company on good terms,” Cas says seriously.

Sam quirks an eyebrow at him. “You never have to put that on the resume.”

“Do I need to put the gas station on the resume?”

“Cas,” Sam says, folding his hands on the table. “You know this is all falsified, right? It’s only real, like, in spirit. So you can get hired to do something you’re actually good at.”

“Oh,” says Cas. He’s making the face he sometimes makes that either means _I completely understand_ or _I do not understand at all_.

“And you used a fake name there, right? So it’s not like we could actually put them down as a reference.”

“That’s true,” said Cas. “But I was an excellent employee. And a competent babysitter.”

“You almost died,” says Dean. “And I had to tell you to give the baby Tylenol.”

But he remembers how, while they were cleaning up all the angel residue, the baby had started crying, and how Cas had rushed over to pick her up, had said “shhhh, I know, shhhh,” the most human thing Dean had ever seen him do by far—how panicked he had looked, his eyes wide, forehead wrinkled up, saying, “She’s sick, Dean, I called her mother but I don’t know what else to do.” Cas, who had almost just been killed for how desperately his soul was crying out with need, with loneliness, and here he was, caring for this tiny person he had no obligations to. And now Dean’s thinking about Jack, and—Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with him today?

“Responsible,” Sam says as he takes notes. “I mean, we can put ‘sales associate’ on here if you want. Just can’t be that particular Gas-N-Sip.”

“I’d like that,” Cas says, half a smile on his face.

“Cute baby,” Dean mumbles, still lost in his thoughts. Cas looks up at him, confused—but then he says, “She was.”

It feels like there’s a fork scraping against the raw muscle of Dean’s heart.

“Any more angel stuff you want to try to fit on here? I mean, what was your job description there, technically?”

Cas looks taken aback for a moment. “I was a member of the garrison assigned to watch over Earth. When Anna left, I took her place as the garrison’s leader.”

“Promoted to leadership role…” Sam mumbles. He stops to think, taps the pen to his mouth. Then he says, “Middle management.”

While Sam is thinking, Dean and Cas make eye contact across the table. Dean thinks maybe he’s going to explode. It’s not even about sex this time—it’s just that thinking about Cas changing his last name to Winchester, thinking about Cas holding a baby, thinking about Cas with Jack, then thinking about Cas in the garrison when they’d first met, solemn and devoted and violent—it’s all stirring some stuff up that Dean hadn’t even realized was there. He’s not sure what to call it, what to make of it.

“You know,” says Sam thoughtfully, “we could actually put religious service on here—that might explain some of the gaps. Well, it’s one big gap. But you know what I mean. We could have a little bit of work history, then say you were a member of the clergy for a decade or so, and that you broke with the church pretty recently. You wouldn’t even really have to lie. And people would probably feel weird asking you about it.”

“I suppose that does make sense,” Cas says. He looks to Dean again, who nods.

“All right!” Sam stands and stretches, gathers all his paperwork, moves it to the coffee table. “Break for lunch?”

“I’m starving,” says Dean.

“You didn’t do any work,” says Sam.

That particular phrasing cuts a little close, given the circumstances, so Dean shuts his mouth. When Sam leaves the room to gather sandwiches, Cas stands too, and comes around the table to place his hands on Dean’s shoulders.

Dean puts a hand over one of Cas’s, craning his neck to look up and back at him. “You excited to finally be within reach of the long arm of the law?”

Cas squeezes his shoulders. “I’m excited to move forward,” he says. “To just… be a person. Not just a human. A person.”

“You’ve always been a person,” says Dean. He means it. Cas leans down to kiss him on the top of the head.


	6. Chapter 6

Two weeks later, the renovations are coming along nicely, and Cas is officially a legal citizen not just of the United States but the planet Earth. He has all the necessary paperwork, scrounged up and forged by Sam and the Apocalypse World assimilation squad: Jimmy Novak’s degree in Religion and Philosophy from a tiny liberal arts college in Illinois; a driver’s license; a shiny new birth certificate, petitioned for in front of a courtroom (Cas in his FBI suit and Sam in his actual nice suit that he owns for his job), that reads _Cas James Novak, 9/18/1973._

Cas had surprised Dean with that one—when Sam dropped him off at the house, he dropped the paper in front of Dean on the table and said, “Look at the birthday.”

Dean hadn’t understood at first, but when it came to him, it felt like a punch in the gut: the day Cas had first appeared to him in the barn, told Dean he was the one who had raised him from Hell. He grabbed Cas by the back of the head and kissed him hard.

“Shit,” he said, “your birthday’s in less than a month and I haven’t thought about what to get you.”

And then, of course, there’s everything else. If by some miracle anybody comes looking for Jimmy, if all Sam’s digging brings any old college friends or anything out of the woodwork, they’ll tell them Jimmy had a major psychotic episode leading to a brain injury over a decade ago and doesn’t remember much about his life before 2009—kind of true, in a way, and somewhat verifiable, given Jimmy’s multiple disappearances and reappearances and medical records listing antipsychotic meds. _He goes by Cas now_ , they’ve all rehearsed saying, just in case, _and he’s okay, but he’s a completely different person than the one you knew_. They’ve rehearsed the story too of his time in the clergy, how he’d fully immersed himself in the church after his illness and turned away after falling in love with a man. It’s all very romantic, Dean thinks, very soap opera.

Now Cas has a job interview, so it’s time to put it to the test.

It’s at a “homelessness support and resolution nonprofit” called Our Place, and the job is “development officer” (whatever any of that means). Cas seems excited about it and Dean doesn’t want to rain on his parade—and at least one of them does need a job, eventually—so he mostly lets Sam handle it. The salary isn’t much, but it would be livable for the two of them for now—and it’s more than Dean has ever imagined making by legal means, which kind of freaks him out. It’s just a weird situation to be in.

Dean walks by several times as Cas Googles things like “how to survive job interview” and “can you get fired before you start job.” He keeps telling Cas it’s not going to be that bad, and if it is, he doesn’t want to work there anyway.

“It’s not like it’s the Trials,” he says, standing on the highest rung of a ladder as he hangs drywall on the ceiling and Cas stares fearfully into the organization’s website on his laptop (an old hand-me-down from Sam). “They’re not gonna kill you.”

“How do you know?” says Cas. He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “You’ve never had a job.”

“Hunting _is_ a job,” Dean says, louder than he means to. He rocks the ladder just slightly, grabs the ceiling for balance. “Shit. And I was a construction worker for a while when—you know. Lisa.”

“Right,” says Cas, finally looking up. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Dean climbs back down the ladder, brushes the drywall off his hands before he comes over and scratches the back of Cas’s head. “I know you’re nervous. Don’t be.”

“I just… I really want to land this,” Cas says. He sighs. “I don’t want to think about job applications anymore.”

“Buddy, just wait until you have the job,” says Dean, laughing. “If I know anything about nonprofits—which, to be fair, I don’t—it’s all gonna be coffee runs and petty office drama. You’re gonna wish for the halcyon days of the Gas-N-Sip.”

Cas looks up at Dean again, narrows his eyes, presses his lips together.

“How reassuring,” he says. “Thanks.”

The interview is on Tuesday, so on Saturday, Sam and Eileen come over—Eileen drops Sam off to work on the house and takes Cas shopping for professional clothes.

“It’s his birthday present,” she says when Dean tells her they can’t possibly let her buy Cas an entire new wardrobe. “He’s a million years old and has never gotten a birthday present, so we have to make up for lost time.”

Sam grins and pats Cas on the back, and then Cas and Eileen are gone and Sam’s in the living room, pulling up carpet, while Dean puts drywall on the ceiling of the kitchen.

Dean hears Sam groan from the living room and yells, ”You good?”

“I’m fine,” Sam shouts. “Just hurts my back.”

“Why d’you think I’m having you do it?” He climbs down from the ladder and leans in the doorway, crossing his arms. “Then again, maybe it’s just funny to watch a tall man hunched over like that.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

“But hey,” Dean says. He clears his throat. “Listen, I, uh, I appreciate the help. And I really can’t thank you and Eileen enough for helping Cas out with the job stuff. I mean, man, even the clothes?”

Sam looks up as he folds the last of the carpet over itself in the middle of the room, brushes his hair out of his face.

“Seriously, man,” he says, giving Dean a look that’s half-pity, half-sincerity. “I told you. It’s no big deal. Cas has done so much for us that this doesn’t even come close to paying it back. And, obviously, you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, putting up a hand.

“I just still don’t get why you don’t want to break into the Men of Letters fund.”

“That’s emergency savings,” Dean says firmly. “In case somebody needs it.”

“You’d be set for life, man,” says Sam. He leans up against the wall. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’m serious. We’re saving that shit for a rainy day. It paid for the hospital bills and that’s good enough for now. You don’t think I feel bad about mooching off you and Eileen?”

“No, that’s not—I’ve literally said a million times, it’s not mooching, it doesn’t matter to us. We’re good to help, we don’t need to be paid back, and we can still make it fine without breaking into the fund. But things are…”

“Things are what?” says Dean. He sucks the inside of his cheek in between his teeth.

“I mean, they’re just—” Sam blinks a few times before he looks Dean in the eyes. “They’re different for you, that’s all. Like, are you even planning to get a job?”

Dean laughs bitterly, looks up at the unfinished ceiling.

“I don’t know,” he says. “You know, maybe something about getting repeatedly violated by creepy-crawlies trying to trap me in a literal _dream job_ has put me off the concept.”

And it’s true, though that’s the first time he’s said it out loud—when he thinks about what jobs he might like, he thinks about being a mechanic, and then he thinks about the time he almost got permanently trapped by a djinn in a fantasy where he was a fuck-up working in a garage who stole from Sam. And then he thinks about owning a bar, and he thinks about Rocky’s, and Michael trapped in his brain, screaming, banging on the door. He thinks about going back to construction, but it reminds him of Lisa and Ben. So there aren’t really any untainted options.

“Yeah,” says Sam, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I hadn’t really thought about that, I guess.”

“I don’t know.” They stand in silence for a second, not looking at each other, until Dean hops up to sit on the counter. Sam comes and takes Dean’s place leaning in the kitchen doorway. “I still think I’d be a good mechanic. And I’d like it. It just feels extra weird because—”

“Dad?”

“Yeah.” Dean huffs out a short laugh through his nostrils. “Back in the family business.”

“Well, Dad’s already stopped you from doing a lot of stuff you wanted in your life,” Sam says. “Don’t let him do it again.”

Sam has a point, Dean hates to admit. Turns out that, even years after his death, John approving of something ultimately has the same effect on Dean as John not approving of it.

“Yeah, maybe,” he says.

Sam lets it go. He heads off to roll up the carpet, and Dean returns to drywalling. A few hours later, there’s no carpet left in the house—just those really nice hardwood floors. They’ve just cracked open some celebratory beers—Dean is finally off his pain meds—when they hear Eileen’s car pulling into the driveway.

“Oh, it’s the mallrats,” Dean says when Cas and Eileen stumble in, both laughing, each carrying several bags.

“They’re all his,” Eileen says when Sam raises his eyebrows at them. “He looked adorable in everything, I couldn’t say no.”

“Adorable,” says Cas, and he makes a big show of rolling his eyes as he brings a flat hand up to his mouth and back down. “Thank you, Eileen.”

Dean signs to ask Eileen if she wants a beer, but she shakes her head.

“We should probably head home,” she says, and she looks to Sam, who shrugs and downs his whole beer.

They say their thank yous and goodbyes, and then Sam and Eileen are gone and Dean is peering into the shopping bags.

“Well,” he says, “do I get a fashion show, Ms. Evangelista?”

“You’ll be seeing me in these clothes for a long time to come,” says Cas, sitting down on the newly hardwood floors and carefully pulling clothes out of bags, placing them in stacks. “I’ll just show you what they look like off my body for now.”

“Well, I do like to see clothes off your body,” Dean says, and when Cas looks up at him he winks.

“Later,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “First, look at this sweater.”

The clothes are a little preppy for Dean’s taste—sweaters and cardigans, khakis and button-ups—but probably suitable for the kinds of jobs he’s applying for, and he buys it from Eileen that Cas looks very cute in everything. He sits down in front of Cas and nods intently at every item. Cas is obviously ecstatic to have his own stuff, stuff he picked out for the first time in his life. He could have changed clothes any time, but he always said he liked Jimmy’s clothes, was used to them, so there was no need. Last time he was human, he stole his clothes—the hoodie, the t-shirt, college kid chic—from the laundromat. Over the summer, he just wore whatever flannels and jeans Dean had around or picked out for him. But now, Dean supposes, it’s different.

There’s one bag that Cas saves for last. “Wait here,” he says, and he hops up with the bag, carrying it into the bedroom.

“Oh, am I finally getting the fashion show?” Dean calls out after him, and Cas calls back, “Maybe.”

A few minutes pass and Dean is starting to get really curious—he stands and considers going to knock on the door, but stops when he hears it creak open. Out walks Cas, smiling proudly, and Dean feels like all the breath has been knocked out of his body. He’s wearing dress shoes, black slacks, a blazer to match, a white-button up. A blue tie. Dean looks back up from gawking at the outfit to see Cas’s face fall, and he doesn’t know why until he realizes he’s crying.

“Whoa, sorry,” he says. “I, uh—I don’t know what’s—”

Cas comes toward him hesitantly, nearer and nearer until he’s close enough to wipe a tear off Dean’s face with his thumb.

“Is it too much?” he says. “I just thought it would be nice to have. I’m sorry if it brings up bad memories.”

“No,” says Dean, “no, I just—" He kisses Cas on the forehead, and Cas visibly relaxes. “Just took me off guard, that’s all. Haven’t seen you like this in… well, in a while.”

“It has been a while.” Cas keeps rubbing his thumb gently back and forth on Dean’s cheek, gazing at him with so much tenderness that it’s almost physically painful.

“I miss the trench coat,” Dean says, and halfway through saying it he starts to laugh, which instantly turns into a sob. He buries his face in Cas’s neck, holds him as close as possible.

“Me too,” says Cas, petting the back of Dean’s head. “Me too.”

“Sorry, god, sorry,” Dean says after a few moments. “Gettin’ snot all over your nice new clothes.” He sniffs and stands up straight, his hands on Cas’s waist.

“I don’t mind your snot,” says Cas earnestly, and Dean laughs this time, is relieved when it stays a laugh.

“What did I ever fuckin’ do to deserve you.” He shakes his head.

Cas says, “You know.” Leans in to kiss him.

All Dean can think is how stupid he was not to notice this in front of him the whole time. Almost every day for twelve years Cas wore an approximation of this outfit—looking so handsome, so simultaneously orderly and disheveled, so vaguely goofy in a business casual way, like a kid dressed up in an adult’s clothes when really he was an ancient being wearing a molecule costume—and Dean didn’t kiss him, actively refused the idea that he might _want_ to kiss him, that he should be allowed to. He wasted so much time. They have it now, he tries to remind himself, they have plenty of time now.

“Do you wanna dance?” he says, wiping the last tears from his eyes.

“Dance?” Cas pulls back to inspect Dean’s face, his eyes wide and confused.

“I can put on a record, we can just—you know. Break in the new floors.”

There had been dancing at bars and clubs over the summer, sure, when Dean was drunk and anonymous enough not to care who would see them or what anybody would think. Sometimes they’d even gotten tipsy in the motel room and turned on the radio late at night; Dean would show Cas the dumbest dance moves he could think of and they’d take turns trying to dip each other until they collapsed in laughter on the bed. But they hadn’t danced at all since they’d gotten back to Kansas.

“That would be good,” Cas says, his whole face unraveling into a slow smile.

So Cas kicks off his shoes and Dean pulls him into the bedroom, both of them sliding a little in their socks, and he flips on a Buddy Holly record he’d taken when he moved out of the bunker, then grabs Cas’s hands and spins the both of them in a circle. They sway back and forth for a second, then he pulls Cas in close, closer.

“I love you, Cas,” he says breathlessly. “Always have. Always.”

“I love you too,” Cas sighs into his shoulder.

They stay like that for a moment, just swaying, then Dean pulls back, grinning, and mouths along to the song, eyebrows raised: _You’re gonna say you’ve missed me, you’re gonna say you’ll kiss me, you’re gonna say you’ll love me, ‘cause I’m gonna love you too._

“No fair,” says Cas. “Pick something I know the words to so I can be romantic.”

“What do you know the words to?”

Cas thinks for a moment. “”Believe It or Not’ by Joey Scarbury, ‘Truth Hurts’ by Lizzo, and ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ by Bon Jovi.”

Dean can’t help himself—he cracks up, burying his face in Cas’s shoulder, still swaying, still pressing Cas close. Cas scratches his back lightly, which eventually turns into Dean kissing Cas’s neck, which turns into Dean undoing the tie, throwing the blazer across the room while Cas mumbles again his mouth, “Make sure I hang that up later.”

After—and after they’ve cleaned up, and after Dean has reminded Cas to hang up his suit—Cas snuggles back up against Dean in bed.

“I love fucking you,” he says, running his knuckles up and down Dean’s ribcage, just a pure statement of fact, not even an afterglow flirtation or a come-on for another round.

“Whoa there, cowboy,” says Dean anyway, turning his head to touch his nose to Cas’s. “Save that energy for another day. I’m all tuckered out.” He sees it in Cas’s eyes from mere inches away, the calculation of deciding what to say next, whether the conversation is worth pursuing at all. “I’m kidding,” he says. “I love it too.”

He knows why Cas is being so cautious about this—it’s new. Neither of them were sure about it. Actually, that’s a lie: Cas was fully on board. It was yet another item on the list of things he’d wanted to try over the summer; in fact, it was numero uno. But he’d obviously been nervous to ask, and Dean wasn’t ready, and it just never happened. It was easy to stick to the same basic format, where Dean was doing the fucking; he didn’t have to ask himself a lot of questions, and it felt good, and Cas liked it, and if it ain’t broke, you don’t need to try fixing it. But after that first night in the house, after he’d fallen to his knees in front of Cas without hardly thinking about it, he figured maybe it was worth a shot—letting Cas take the reins. It was. Now it’s like something in the air has changed that Dean can’t quite explain. Like yet another indefinable something between them has finally shifted into place.

Cas gazes inscrutably into his face, the way only Cas can.

“Anything about the past two weeks make you think I _didn’t_ love it?” Maybe he’s accidentally giving off the wrong impression, he thinks—maybe his nerves are coming off like disinterest, like displeasure. It’s not that. It’s definitely not that. And he doesn’t want to make Cas feel unwanted. But he also doesn’t want to talk about it; he just wants to do it.

“No, you’ve… You’ve responded favorably.” Cas gives him a reserved smile. “It’s just that since we’ve returned to Lawrence, I’ve taken on a more dominant sexual role—”

“Yeah, I get it—”

“—and I just want to make sure you’re still comfortable with it.”

“Cas, I am _so_ comfortable with it. If I wasn’t comfortable with it, we wouldn’t do it. What I’m not comfortable with is the words _dominant sexual role_ coming out of your mouth. Let’s watch a movie, huh?” He rolls over to grab his laptop from the bedside table, but Cas grabs his wrist.

“Dean,” he says, head tilted into his shoulder, eyes glittering with sincerity, “I’m sorry if I sound clinical, but it’s important to check in about these things.”

Dean slumps down against the headboard with the final realization that he’s not getting out of this. “Okay, Dr. Ruth, where’d you get that one? Sam? You been talking to Sam about this?”

“Sam?” Cas wrinkles his nose. “I wouldn’t ask Sam for sexual advice. You know I’ve been researching.”

“When you said you were _researching sex_ I thought you meant _watching porn_. Not getting a sex therapy degree. Jesus.”

Cas blinks, confused. “Jimmy’s degrees are in Religion and Philosophy.”

Dean opens his mouth, closes it. “Look,” he says. “Thank you for checking in. Really. I like what we’ve got going on—I like it a lot. A lot. And, you know, if you ever want to do things the other way, I’m good with that. Maybe I’ll wanna get back to it at some point. But for now I want to keep—you know—"

“You’re being very vague,” says Cas.

“I like having you fuck me, all right?” He grab’s Cas’s face, looks him directly in the eyes, which are dilating just as Dean stares into them. “It makes sense and it feels good. Really good. And until further notice, I want to keep doing it, okay? Is that what you want to hear?”

Cas smirks. Leans in to kiss Dean on the cheek. “Maybe,” he says. He leans back and pulls the covers up around him. “We could watch that movie now.”

About halfway through the original _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ film, Cas starts to nod off. Dean would wake him but he thinks it’s sweet—how his head will fall just a little and he’ll startle awake, which always happens a few times before he’ll settle, warm and heavy, into Dean’s shoulder and start mumbling nonsense.

“Thanks for the dance,” he says, which is at least mostly intelligible, but Dean can tell he’s mostly asleep.

Dean presses pause, shuts the laptop, sets it aside. Pulls Cas in close and runs a hand through his soft hair.

“Anytime,” he says.

* * *

Over the next few days, they hang around and work on the house—Dean is almost done hanging drywall on the ceiling, thank Christ, just one more room to go—and then it’s interview day.

Cas is fretting in front of the bathroom mirror, adjusting his tie over and over, until Dean comes in and fixes it for him.

“I just want to look professional,” he says, voice strained.

“You do look professional,” Dean says. “And very handsome. You’re gonna charm the asses off ‘em. You ready to go?”

Cas swallows hard, nods.

When they pull up to the building, it looks like a doctor’s office, or maybe just a really long house. There are two women in skirt suits eating sandwiches on a bench right outside the door, and when Dean pulls into a parking spot right up front, they both gawk at the car, then at each other, then at the car again. Dean feels a little surge of pride—always good to see a healthy amount of respect and admiration for Baby in the wild.

“All right,” says Cas. “Okay. I’m going in now.” He doesn’t move.

“Hey,” Dean says, putting a hand on Cas’s cheek, gently turning Cas’s face towards him. “You’re gonna do great, okay? They’re gonna love you. And if they don’t, fuck ‘em.” He smiles, gives Cas a quick kiss on the lips. “Now go get that job.”

Cas nods resolutely and gets out of the car. Dean watches as he heads towards the door—as he pauses and gives the two women on the bench a nervous little wave. Dean’s heart flutters a tiny, tiny bit. And when Cas has entered the building, Dean waits just a second to make sure he doesn’t walk right back out before pulling out and heading to the nearest gas station for a snack. When he drives away, the women trail the car with their eyes. Dean smirks into the rearview mirror.

About thirty minutes later, Dean is polishing off a bag of chips in a Gas-N-Sip parking lot down the street—things really do come full circle—when Cas texts him: _Done with interview. Come get me :)_

So he heads back over, and Cas is waiting outside for him, barely concealing a huge smile by tightly closing his mouth, which makes him look both unsettling and endearing, like a sock puppet.

“So I take it the interview went well?” Dean says as Cas opens the car door.

“I’m hired,” says Cas, “I can’t believe it, they hired me on the spot, I made the interviewer cry, I thought that was probably a bad sign but I suppose it wasn’t, given the outcome, and she said that given my experiences and values I would be a truly good fit for the organization and I’m supposed to start next Monday.” Then he leans over the console and lays a big smooch on Dean, comical _mwah_ sound and everything.

Dean blinks at him for a second, processing—he doesn’t think he’s ever heard Cas say that many words in a row under non-emergency circumstances—but then his supportive partner instinct kicks into gear and he pulls him back in for another kiss.

“That’s awesome,” he says, “that’s so awesome, Cas, I’m so proud of you. Jesus, what did you say to them?”

Dean pulls out of the parking lot and starts driving home as Cas talks—he doesn’t want to be the weird guy loitering outside the homelessness prevention center.

“I don’t know,” says Cas, and he seems genuinely bewildered. “She asked about my work experience, which I had rehearsed extensively with Sam, and then she asked a few very specific questions about my experience as a member of the clergy, which I wasn’t entirely prepared for, so I panicked and told her the other story, about Jimmy’s disappearance and the supposed psychotic episode and subsequent brain injury, but obviously I told it as if it were me, and she seemed concerned, but I reassured her that I was fine now and that it had been a long time since I’d believed myself to be an angel of the Lord—which I suppose is true, in a way—and then that extended into a conversation about my own experience with homelessness, and I told her how much I learned about being human in that time, you know, about cruelty and kindness, circumstance, survival, and that I felt I’d lost my faith but was able to recreate it elsewhere, and then I realized she had begun to cry, and I apologized, and I—I got up to leave, but she told me to sit back down because my words resonated deeply with the mission of the organization and she’d be happy to go ahead and offer me the spot. So I said yes. And then I texted you.”

“Wow. Wish I could’ve heard that speech,” says Dean. “Sounds impressive.”

Cas shrugs. “You’ve probably heard me say it before.”

“Well, Mr. Developmental Officer—”

“Development officer,” Cas corrects him, “I think.”

“Mr. _Development_ Officer,” says Dean. “What do you say I take you out for a nice dinner tonight to celebrate?”

With his word bank for the next year or so exhausted in a single stretch, Cas just smiles and nods.

Back at home, Cas spends the whole afternoon meticulously researching nearly every restaurant in Lawrence. It occurs to Dean that Cas has never even been to a restaurant that’s not a diner, a bar, or a fast food place; then again, when he asks what Dean’s favorite restaurant in town is, Dean comes up short. It’s not like John ever took him out to eat when he was a kid. And even when he was back over the past year, he wasn’t going out to eat—just ate whatever Sam cooked, sometimes ordered a pizza if he was feeling decadent. There’s one fancy place he used to take dates (he never went on a second date, so no worries about repeats) but he’s pretty sure it’s shut down now. So he has zero recommendations. He’s not even sure why he suggested going out to eat. Probably because their kitchen is effectively useless, since the oven needs to be replaced, and he doesn’t want to impose on Sam again, and when he thinks about sitting across a table from Cas in a place that’s not a perma-lit diner his heart skips a little—but practically, it’s a different story.

Finally Cas takes a break from his immersive Googling to call Sam and tell him the good news.

“Fantastic, man!” Sam says over the speakerphone. “I knew you’d get it. Congrats. I wanna hear everything—y’all coming over for dinner?”

"Actually,” says Cas loudly, leaning forward over the table, because he still isn’t totally sure how speakerphone works, “Dean is taking me on a date.”

The work strikes a bit of fear into Dean’s heart from across the room. It’s not like it’s not a date—and it’s a little late in the game to be worried about that kind of terminology. They did plenty of date-like activities over the summer, and even had sex during or after most of them. But the fancy restaurant kind of dating is a different phenomenon.

“A date,” says Sam, laughing. “How chivalrous of him. Have you picked somewhere? I have recommendations.”

“Of course you do,” Dean shouts from across the room.

“So there’s the Casbah if you just want burgers, but like, nice burgers.”

“I like burgers,” Dean says, loudly, but more to himself than to Sam or Cas. Cas is scribbling furiously on a piece of note paper.

“Merchants is great, very hearty, kind of farm-to-table. And 715 is Italian, good atmosphere for a date. All of these are downtown, so you could just go walk around and see what you find.”

While Sam is talking, Dean stands, wanders over to the table. He runs a hand through Cas’s hair, slings an arm around his shoulder, pulls him in close.

“You realize neither of us have any idea what these words mean,” he says. He can feel the Sam-glare from the other line.

“I like the numbered place,” Cas says, menus for every place Sam has mentioned already pulled up on his laptop. “I’ve never had Italian food. Besides pizza.”

“Last time I was in an Italian restaurant, I was on a date with Death,” Dean mutters, and Cas looks at him. “I mean, not a date,” he says. A pause. He shrugs. “We were in Chicago.”

“Okay,” says Cas. “Anyway. I think I’d like to try this one.”

“How about you guys come over for a drink before?” Sam says. “I still wanna hear about the interview, but I don’t want to intrude on your _date_.” The sparkles and cartoon hearts floating around the word are nearly visible. Dean rolls his eyes.

“We’d love to,” says Cas, “right, Dean?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” says Dean, still absently rubbing Cas’s shoulder. To be honest, he kind of doesn’t want to. With the weird first date energy that’s already hanging around, it feels almost like going to your prom date’s house to take pictures. But it’s the polite thing to do, and Cas wants to see Sam tonight, and Dean doesn’t like telling Sam no about stupid, mundane shit like this. Life’s too short.

So then they’re getting dressed—together, for a date, kind of their first, in the house that they already live in together, romantically, which all sort of makes Dean’s head spin if he thinks about it too hard, so he doesn’t—and Dean isn’t totally sure what to wear, keeps picking out shirts and getting nervous and putting them back. It’s not like he has to impress Cas; he knows that. And normally he’d jump at the opportunity to get dressed up. Finding the right thing to wear just feels extra important, especially now that he and Cas are sharing closet space and he sees all Cas’s new clothes next to his, sees how different they are—the person that Cas has decided to try being juxtaposed against the person Dean has been all along. He wants to fit into this life that Cas is crafting.

Cas was dressed and ready to go ten minutes ago, in a blue short-sleeve button-up that makes Dean’s brain feel like it’s trying to calculate a complex yet sexy mathematical problem, so Dean finally just picks a shirt and puts his nice jacket on over it, hopes it’s good enough for whatever this place is. He’s sure Sam will tell him as soon as he walks in the door if it’s not good enough.

Instead, from Eileen, he gets an emphatic, “You look nice!” Sam doesn’t even seem to notice. Eileen grabs Cas by the face and says, “ _So_ cute. Right, Dean?”

“What, do I need to be jealous? Y’all gonna run off together?” He makes a motion with his fingers that looks like a pair of legs running away. It’s almost definitely not sign language but maybe it could be. Eileen just laughs.

Sam pours everybody a glass of wine and Cas launches into the interview story again, a little more verbal punctuation than last time but no less enthusiasm.

“Well, shit,” says Sam, “guess that story we concocted really worked. Now you just gotta keep it up.”

“Yes,” says Cas, “well, I hope I don’t have to put too much effort into the lying. It seemed like the parts that resonated most were from my genuine experience.”

“That’s what lying’s all about,” says Dean. “You gotta find the true parts and roll with those. Every lie is just a truth in different clothes.” He wonders if maybe he’s revealing too much about his philosophy.

“I’m just happy for you, man,” says Sam. “It’s a good salary to start, and you’re gonna have, like, health insurance.”

“Health insurance,” says Cas, a blunted sentence that Dean knows him well enough to hear as a question.

“We don’t need health insurance,” says Dean with a dismissive wave. “We survived without it this long.”

“That’s… not technically true,” says Sam. “We had _stolen_ health insurance. _Fake_ health insurance. Which is still health insurance.”

“Yeah, but when do we ever go to the hospital? We just patch shit up at home. And it’s not like we’re gettin’ beat up on the daily anymore.”

“You were very recently in the hospital,” says Cas, eyebrows raised slightly. “If you don’t recall, you were shot.”

“I mean—” Dean pauses. “I mean, that doesn’t really count.”

“We’ll talk insurance later,” Sam says pointedly, leaning in closer to Cas. Cas nods conspiratorially. It’s fine, Dean thinks. They can bond over yuppie shit if they want to. Not that health insurance is yuppie shit. He’s not even sure where that came from. He makes eye contact with Eileen from across the table. As if reading his mind, she shrugs.

A few minutes later, they head out—thankfully Sam doesn’t try to take any pictures, though Dean can tell he kind of wants to.

And then they’re driving through downtown, and Cas is gazing intently at the storefronts, the people walking along the sidewalks. He’s been in cities before, definitely cities bigger and flashier than Lawrence, but he seems totally spellbound. Maybe it’s just the magic of being at home in a new place. Dean reaches over and scratches at his knee.

“You know, I still don’t understand why they call it ‘downtown,’” Cas says, distracted. “I’ve lost my innate sense for the cardinal directions since becoming a human, but _down_ certainly doesn’t seem to be the nature of the area relative to other parts of town.”

“Sometimes,” Dean says, looking over his shoulder to parallel park, “we humans do things that don’t make a lot of sense.”

Inside the restaurant, they get seated at a little table in the back, so private that it’s almost unnerving. Dean wonders if they give off a vibe that they need a lot of privacy, then wonders what that even means. They get their drinks, order food—Cas orders something he’s never heard of, on purpose—and Dean keeps crossing and uncrossing his legs. He’s not really sure how to be in a restaurant like this, where there’s a candle on the table and the food costs as much as four or five meals for him and Sam on the road, easy. He notices Cas’s hands wrapped around his water glass, his fingers tapping, rotating the glass, moving the condensation around.

“You’re doing a thing,” he says, and Cas blinks, taken aback.

“A thing?”

He points to the glass. “You nervous? You do that when you’re nervous sometimes.”

“Do what?” Cas says indignantly. “I don’t—I’m not nervous.”

“With the fingers,” Dean says, mimicking Cas on his own glass. “All tippy-tappy. You got nervous hands. It’s cute.”

“I have a calm and centered demeanor,” Cas says, gravely serious. “My hands are not _tippy-tappy_.”

Dean swallows a laugh, says, “Mhm.”

“What about you?” Cas shoots back. “You’ve crossed your legs ten times. And you’re chewing on the inside of your mouth. You know—if we’re identifying nervous habits.”

Dean is about to protest, but realizes that in order to do that, he would have to unclamp his teeth from the inside of his cheek. He smacks his mouth, stretching his jaw, not looking Cas in the face.

“Get out of my mouth,” he grumbles. Cas raises his eyebrows again. Just then, the food comes, and Dean knows he’s hungry, but he just stares at it, then looks back up at Cas.

“So,” says Cas, who’s doing the same, “if we’re both nervous, why is that?”

“I dunno,” says Dean. He takes a bite of his food just to avoid talking. He should know better than to try that, he recognizes, because Cas would just sit and stare at him for hours, given the necessity or the opportunity. He chews, swallows. “I mean, I’m just not really used to, uh, fancy restaurants. That’s all.”

Cas’s expression softens. He doesn’t say anything, just takes a bite of his food too. “Me neither,” he finally says. “Was this a bad choice?”

“No,” says Dean, “no, of course not. This is good, and I—I like being here with you. I like doing anything with you. It just feels like, I don’t know. Like I’m trying to pretend I’m—”

“Sam,” Cas says definitively.

“Just… someone I’m not.”

“Well,” says Cas. “We don’t have to do things like this if you’d rather not do them. I’m content to eat microwavable dinners at home and homecooked meals at Sam and Eileen’s.”

“Listen, I just need to get the oven replaced and then you’re gonna forget Sam ever even cooked you a meal, all right? I’m gonna cook for you. I’m gonna do everything for you. And I’m—I’m gonna take you out sometimes, if you want, ‘cause you deserve it.” He places a hand on top of Cas’s, thinks for a second. “It’s just hard to adjust. I’ve been hunting for literally my entire life, you know? I’ve never been a go-to-restaurants kind of guy. Never been a settle-down kind of guy either. But now I guess that’s path I’m on, and it’s kind of freaking me out, because I don’t have the first fuckin’ clue how to do any of this, Cas. Not one clue. But I’ll do it for you, because that’s the kind of life you’ve earned, the kind of life you came back down to Earth for, and I always, always want you to have everything you want.”

Cas looks at him the way he sometimes does, radiating such warmth and care that Dean physically starts to sweat.

“It matters what you want too, Dean.” That’s all he says.

“Well,” says Dean, “I want this. All of it. The—the restaurant, your job, the house, your new clothes, everything. I always wanted a normal life. I just never thought I would have it, so it’s taking a little getting used to.”

“I understand,” says Cas. He leans across the table to kiss Dean, just one small kiss, and Dean barely registers that he doesn’t even care that they’re in public. Just another couple, sharing an inconsequential kiss over a romantic dinner. “I never thought I would have it either.”

And all of Dean’s jitters dissolve, just like that. Of course Cas feels the same way. Of course.

“You know,” he says, “we’re a couple of idiots.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Cas, twirling pasta around his fork. “I’m highly employable.”

Dean laughs. “I’m thinking of getting a job myself,” he says, “so let’s see where we’re at in a couple weeks.”

“That’s wonderful, Dean. What kind of job?”

“Well,” he says, and he takes a sip of his drink. “I had a dream once that I was a mechanic.”

“I had a dream last week that I was a doctor being sued for malpractice **.”** Cas frowns. “I don’t know if _follow your dreams_ is an idiom that should be taken so seriously.”

Dean blinks at him, then shakes his head. “Yeah, well,” he says. “My dream was an extra special dream caused by a Djinn.”

“I see,” says Cas. “Yes.”

“And, you know, my dad was a mechanic. But I like it. I’m good at it. I could make decent money.”

“If that’s what you want, I think it sounds perfect.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and they just look at each other for a moment. Cas wants him to be happy too, he realizes. They just want each other to be happy. That’s all they’ve ever wanted. Then he remembers what Cas said about the doctor dream. “You never talk about your dreams,” he says. “They gettin’ any better?”

Very occasionally, over the summer, Cas would wake up gasping and sweating, heart pounding like the dickens, and Dean would tell him _it’s just a nightmare, it’s fine, it’s fine, you’re okay,_ would run his hand up and down Cas’s back, press kisses to his forehead, until Cas calmed down enough to go back to sleep. They’ve never spoken about it during daylight hours, and for the most part he doesn’t know what Cas dreams about. Dean supposes if he’d gotten by without sleep for millennia, he’d be pretty freaked out by dreams too.

Cas shifts in his seat.

“I’m all right,” he says, totally dodging the question. “I’m getting used to it.”

He reaches across the table to touch Cas’s hand again, gently. “Being a human’s pretty fucked up,” he says. He looks around, vaguely anxious that someone’s going to overhear, but he’s had weirder conversations in more public places. “You never ask for help and I just—I just want you to know you can, okay?”

Sometimes Cas still forgets to drink water, and Dean will catch him at the sink in the evening, filling up glass after glass, draining them, filling them again. He’ll fall asleep at the kitchen table, on top of his laptop or whatever book he’s reading—he loves reading, but whines that it’s a much slower process now—at off hours. Certain sounds bother him, loud ones catch him off guard, quiet ones grate at him, but sometimes he complains that he feels his senses are blunted, that being an angel was like operating at maximum capacity and maximum efficiency and being a human is like running on a half-tank—like losing the ability to see certain colors, or at least certain shades. He’s a sucker for sensory input, loves food, loves sex, loves listening to music, but gets nauseous when Dean drives a little too fast. Once he’d stared at the bedroom light switch for a long time before grumbling and standing to hit it, and when Dean pointed out that he’d never really used his telekinesis as an angel either, he’d said, “It’s about the principle of the matter.” Another time Dean thought he’d caught him crying in the backseat of Baby in the middle of the night, but Cas straightened up quick, said he’d just remembered he’d left his phone in the car and felt compelled to come get it. When Dean woke up alone in the bed that night, his first thought was acceptance: _It’s finally over. He came to his senses and left._

“I know it’s hard,” Dean says.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says earnestly, still not looking directly in his eyes. “It’s an adjustment, to be sure. But to be honest, I’d been losing my powers for a while by the time I—by the time I returned to Heaven. It’s not like I was operating at full capacity the entire time. So I’m managing.” Finally, he looks up at Dean. “It doesn’t hurt that I’ve had good models for human living all these years.”

“Oh, please,” says Dean. “Me and Sam? You could have gotten better person lessons from a preschool.”

“You taught me almost everything I know about being here,” says Cas. He’s smiling, a little bit of light from the candle glowing up across his face. “For better or worse.”


	7. Chapter 7

On Cas’s first day of work, Dean feels almost like a proud parent dropping him off at his first day of school. Then again, that’s weird, so he pretends he didn’t think it. He gives Cas his lunch, a kiss, and a “text me if anything weird happens” before sending him off. He’s not exactly sure what kind of weird he means—like, is it a bigger problem if the coworkers are bitchy, or if there’s somehow a monster attack? Probably not a monster attack, Dean reminds himself. Those aren’t his problem anymore. It’s just a hard thought pattern to get out of.

Without Cas right there next to him, he spins his wheels. First, literally: He pulls into the driveway of the house and then right back out. It’s instinct, impulse—he’s alone for the first time in a while, so why not go for a drive? But after about an hour of driving it occurs to him that he can’t leave Lawrence, doesn’t even want to. All he’s really trying to get away from is the fact that he doesn’t have anything to try to get away from, so there’s only so far he can go.

When he gets back home it’s still morning. He throws his keys in a dish on the counter and looks at the living room, the kitchen. Not finished, not nearly, but getting closer every day. And what then? He could knock out a good chunk of work today if he tried, but he’s feeling restless, not motivated. He flops into the one big chair in the living room and thinks about how empty it all looks, how sterile. They’ll have to get some real furniture soon. Dean’s stomach churns a little bit and he wonders if he’s hungry, or maybe really-super-not-hungry. Can’t tell. He checks his phone. Nothing from Cas, obviously, because Cas is having a nice, normal first day of work—probably orientation, meeting his coworkers. Cas, with coworkers. Probably saying some absolutely buckwild shit, white-knuckling it through polite society. Or maybe he fits in fine. Either way makes Dean feel just a little pleased and just a little heartbroken. Guilty too. He wants Cas to have a good time, to be able to belong to something outside Dean’s purview—of course he does. But it’s also the first time in months that they’ve been separated for more than a couple hours, really. Before that, radio silence for nearly a year; before that, well, it was complicated. So he’s got good reason to be a little antsy. It’s normal, he tells himself, over and over. It’s normal.

He passes some time just staring at his phone like that, and then it’s noon, but he’s still not hungry. He throws together a sandwich anyway, deli meat and mayo, a small, pathetic feeling creeping in, like he’s still the lonely bachelor he can’t fight the feeling he’s meant to be. He wants a real kitchen again. A real, working oven. And he’ll have that soon, he reminds himself, as soon as he pulls through. There are some other things he wants in the house: a guitar, a bigger TV, a bookshelf lined with sci-fi and fantasy. He has time for that stuff now, he supposes. It doesn’t really feel like it. Mostly it just feels like he’s waiting. For what? Something.

Then again, Cas isn’t waiting—he’s just doing. He’s out there getting a life that doesn’t revolve totally around Winchester bullshit for once. It feels like there’s a string being pulled in the back of his head that reminds him on the hour every hour: Cas doesn’t need you. He can survive on his own this time.

Well, two can play at that game. He goes and grabs his laptop, scrolls through job listings. There are a couple garages in town taking applications. He texts Sam: _Hey wanna make me a resume?_ Within minutes, Sam has already emailed him one, specialized for mechanic work, plus a pre-written cover letter; he must have had this prepared since they talked last week, maybe even earlier than that. Dean rolls his eyes but deep down, there’s the pang of the knowledge that he’s cared for, cared about, even (maybe especially) when it comes to stupid stuff like this. He works through the applications—Cas sure wasn’t kidding about having to memorize a whole-ass script distinct from his real life—and sends them off. Then he just sits there some more. It all feels like playacting, like throwing a paper airplane into the wind—no way is he actually gonna hear back from any of these places. Anything he can imagine looks fake and two-dimensional in his mind’s eye. He does _want_ a job; he wants something to do, wants to put brain and body to work, wants to provide for Cas. But anything beyond the next minute feels completely out of reach. Like he’s stupid to try making plans.

He checks his phone again. 3 PM and still nothing from Cas. He doesn’t want to text Sam again because Sam is at work—like, real work, as real as work can be when you’re a paralegal. Same for Eileen, because she was somehow able to convince a school to let her mold young minds. Good for her; great for the students (who are probably having the time of their lives learning curse words and self-defense techniques in their Deaf studies class), probably bad news for the administration. And… that’s basically everyone he knows. Okay, fine, that’s not true. But there’s nobody else he texts besides Claire, and he doesn’t want to bother her either. So he turns _The Great British Baking Show_ on and his brain off.

The next thing he knows—mindless TV-binging works wonders, always has—it’s past five and he hears a car door shut outside. For a brief, panicked moment, he thinks he must have left Cas hanging at the office; then he remembers Sam was supposed to pick him up anyway. They’ve really gotta get Cas a car again.

When Cas walks in, Dean rushes over a little too quickly to greet him, only slowing his roll when he gets within hugging distance. Doesn’t want to seem too eager. Then he realizes that’s stupid because they literally live together. But then Cas throws his arms around Dean like he hasn’t seen him in years—whispers right in his ear, “Hi. I missed you, Dean.” Dean relaxes into his touch, nuzzles against his ear, a massive weight lifting off his shoulders. Okay, so maybe he was being super normal all day after all. Or at least if he wasn’t, Cas wasn’t either.

“Missed you too,” he says. He rubs a little circle onto Cas’s back, then steps away. “So, first day. How was it? Gimme the rundown.”

“Exhausting,” says Cas, and he collapses into one of the dining table chairs as if to demonstrate. “I’ve been introduced to so many people, all of whose names I’ll be expected to remember. And I’m going to have to become much more comfortable with computers.” Then he looks up at Dean, eyes huge, somehow more huge than usual. “But I’m really looking forward to this work. I think it’ll make a difference.”

What he really wants to say is _don’t get your hopes up about making a real difference by working at a nonprofit_ , but he’s trying to be less unnecessarily mean, so he says, “Cas, you’ve already saved the world like three hundred times.”

Cas looks around the room like he’s considering.

“Well, saving the world is one thing,” he says. “Helping people is another.”

“Yeah,” says Dean. Of course Cas had the only possible response in the world that would shut Dean up, and he didn’t even do it on purpose. “You’re right.” At that, he gives Cas a kiss on the top of the head and says, “How about we order a pizza?”

While Cas scrolls intently through the Pizza Shuttle menu, he tries to tell Dean about his day, but keeps getting distracted.

“They showed me around the office and then I met Janine,” he says. “They put cream cheese on the pizza?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, leaning over the back of Cas’s chair. “Back up. Who’s Janine?”

“She works in accounting.” Cas returns to scrolling—doesn’t say anything else.

“Okay.” Dean isn’t quite sure how to proceed. Is Cas hiding something from him? Did something happen? It’s not like he really knows how to do this whole _how was your day_ thing anyway; Lisa worked odd hours so he never had anybody coming home to him from a 9 to 5. But it’s the right thing to ask, right? It’s what you do when your—when—when the person you live with comes home from work. So he wants to do it. “Well. Did you do anything else?”

Cas looks up at him then, his face blank, but Dean thinks he sees Cas searching his face. Looking for something.

“That’s it, mostly,” Cas says, nonchalant. He turns back around.

Obviously there’s a decision to be made here: He can let it go, move on—or he can press.

“Cas,” he says, swallowing down the voice in his head saying _don’t press, don’t fucking do it, he’s keeping things from you on purpose_. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Why do you ask?”

“I’m just trying to hear about your day,” Dean says, totally at a loss.

Cas closes the laptop. He tries to turn around, but with Dean so close to the back of the chair, there’s not really a good angle, so he stands up. Looks right into Dean’s eyes, still searching, curious.

“You really want to know?” he says. Matter-of-fact. To Dean it feels like a stab in the gut.

“Wh—of course I want to know,” he says, taking a step back. Crossing his arms. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Cas tilts his head, just a little. Doesn’t say anything for a second. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “I just didn’t think you would be interested.”

“Well, I’m interested,” Dean says firmly, taking one of Cas’s hands. “I want to know the exact layout of the office, and Janine’s fuckin’ middle name. Literally anything you want to share. I’m all ears.”

Cas smiles at that—gives Dean’s hand a squeeze.

“Okay,” he says. And he tells Dean everything: about the open floor plan in the development office and how nervous it makes him to have people surrounding him on all sides, though the office’s structures and power dynamics do remind him in some ways of Heaven; how everybody insisted on taking him out to lunch but he felt bad about wasting the sandwich Dean made him, so he promised they could do it tomorrow; how there’s one younger employee who reminds him a little of Charlie, a fast-talking IT employee with purple hair and a bunch of bobbleheads on their desk. By the time Cas finishes narrating, they’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor, despite the three chairs next to them.

It’s honestly hard to believe so much could happen to Cas without Dean there—stuff that has nothing to do with Dean. Before, when Cas did things without Dean around, it was all angel politics, or active secret-keeping from Dean, or Dean fucking up and telling Cas he never wanted to talk to him again. Now it’s just an office job. And every night Cas will come home, and they’ll do this.

“And Janine’s husband is named Jerry,” Cas says. “I think that’s everything.”

“If you’re sure that’s everything,” Dean says, grinning, and he glances up toward the table. “I just realized we forgot to order. I’m starving.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Cas looks genuinely apologetic, like he’s done something wrong. Every day, Dean knows he has more and more to make up for—years and years of making Cas feel less-than, of never saying how he really felt, of not listening, of pretending he wasn’t listening when really he was.

“What? Don’t apologize.” Dean shifts forward and kisses him on the cheek. “I love hearing about your day. It’s important.”

“More important than pizza?” Cas says, raising his eyebrows just slightly.

“Well.” Dean shrugs. “A tie, maybe.”

Cas stands, stretching, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He does this sometimes now that he’s human—just starts shucking his clothes mid-conversation because he doesn’t feel like wearing them anymore. Only in the house, and only in front of Dean, usually, so it’s charming instead of alarming, but still. “I still don’t know what you did all day.”

“Oh, you know,” Dean says, his chest suddenly tight. He makes a big deal out of Cas telling him all that and then doesn’t even have anything to say about his own day. “Watched some TV. Went for a drive.” Before he can stop himself, he adds as he stands, “Applied for a couple jobs.”

The way that Cas looks at him is measured but fond. Dean knows he’s having exactly the same internal debate that Dean was having earlier: accept or press? He settles on a hum of interest, a gentle scratch at the nape of Dean’s neck.

“I’m proud of you,” he says simply, and then he reaches for the laptop. “Now, dinner.”

“Hey,” Dean says. “I’m proud of you too, Mr. Breadwinner.”

“Pizza-winner,” Cas says, straight-faced, typing.

* * *

Of course, the last fucking day Dean is drywalling the ceiling, he absolutely beefs it off the ladder. He put it off for a few more days, to the weekend, figuring he was moving quickly enough that it wouldn’t put him behind schedule—not that there really is a schedule, just the internal ticking impatience that propels him to do the work in the first place. So it’s Saturday morning, and Cas is squinting at the newspaper at the kitchen table, and Dean is up on the ladder, laying the literal last pieces, and something happens—he’s not sure what. All he knows is one second he’s securely-footed on a rung and the next he slips, tries grabbing at something, realizes there’s nothing to grab. And then he’s on the floor.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he says, and he tries to roll over, but it’s harder than it should be, hurts more than it should. Hurts at all, is the problem.

“Dean,” Cas says, already kneeling next to him, a hand hovering nervously over Dean’s chest. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grunts, but it’s starting to feel a little bit too familiar, lying on the ground, breathing through the pain, Cas kneeling over him, helpless and horrified. His head spins a little. “It’s fine. Just let me—” When he tries to throw out an arm to lift himself up, he can’t. He groans through a tightly closed mouth. “Okay.”

“Is it your arm?” Cas’s levitating hand ghosts above Dean’s shoulder, exactly where it hurts the most. Call it intuition; maybe it’s some leftover angel instinct. Whatever it is, beyond basic identification, it’s useless. “What’s wrong? What should we do?”

“Ice,” says Dean. “Just get me some ice.” Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid. First the werewolf and now this. What is he, a fucking Looney Tune? It’s not like Sam is out there post-apocalypse getting his shit totally wrecked on the daily. Then again, Sam just sits at a desk all day. Maybe, he thinks, it isn’t just that Chuck’s plot protection is kaput—maybe Jack is, like, actively doing this. He feels bad as soon as he thinks it. Knows it’s ridiculous. Dean knows he would deserve it if Jack wanted to punish him, but Jack’s too good for that, and besides: hands-off universe-parenting, right?

Cas comes back with some ice in a Ziploc bag; Dean thanks himself silently for giving Cas his work lunch sandwiches in Ziploc bags all week, because before that, Cas definitely didn’t know they existed, much less what drawer they would be in. He presses it to Dean’s shoulder, so careful. Dean brushes his fingers over Cas’s forearm, a silent _thank you_.

“We should go to the hospital,” Cas says. Before Dean can even react to that, he says, “I know you don’t want to, but there’s no point in trying to fix this at home if it’s serious. And there’s no other way to know if it’s serious, because I can’t sense it and you aren’t going to tell me how much it actually hurts.”

“I was just _at_ the hospital,” Dean protests, and he recognizes as he says it that it’s not the most effective argument, but it’s the only one that comes to mind. Cas just raises an eyebrow, hauls Dean to his feet by pulling on his good arm. He grabs the keys to the Impala from the dish on the counter, and when Dean opens his mouth, Cas sticks a finger right in his face.

“I’m driving,” he says. Dean sulks but doesn’t argue.

In the waiting room of the emergency room, Cas holds the hand attached to Dean’s injured arm, stroking at it absentmindedly with his thumb. Eventually, he leans over, conspiratorial, right into Dean’s ear. He whispers, “Good thing we have health insurance.”

Dean cannot believe this shit.

About an hour later, there’s a doctor in front of them, saying, “It’s just a sprain. It’s mild, so you should see significant improvement fairly soon. You’ll just need to keep an eye on it and ice it a few times a day for at least a week.”

Dean tries to kick Cas in the shin discreetly. The doctor narrows one eye at him.

“No strenuous activity,” she says, adjusting her glasses, “at least none involving the arm.”

He considers going for another light kick but thinks better of it. Cas is calm, composed, still as an ice sculpture, nodding only at the appropriate moments; Dean kind of just wants to get a rise out of him.

“You’re lucky,” she says. “You could have broken that arm. Or hit your head.”

“Lucky,” says Dean. “Sure.”

“Just be a little more careful on the ladder next time.”

It takes an active effort in literally every muscle of Dean’s face not to sneer at her. He maneuvers into an obviously fake smile instead. Cas squeezes his thigh.

They’re sent on their way, and Dean spends the whole car ride home complaining about the emergency room: “We sat in the waiting room two hours and talked to a human for ten minutes. Fuckin’ places are useless.”

“Not useless,” Cas says. “I’d rather know for certain that you’re all right.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Dean says, approximately the tenth time that day, and his voice cracks as he says it.

For the next five minutes or so, until the pull into the driveway at the house, Cas stays silent. After he puts the car in park, he turns to Dean—unbuckles his seatbelt, folds his hands on the console.

“Dean,” he says, “do you understand how difficult this is for me?”

“… My shoulder being hurt?”

“No. The fact that I—” He blinks away, but when he turns back, his gaze is steady as ever. “Anything could happen to you and I couldn’t do anything about it. I can’t heal you. Can’t help. I can’t do anything.”

“Cas—” Dean starts, because that’s not true, of course it’s not, but Cas doesn’t let him talk.

“Last time I was human you still had cosmic protection. You were in grave danger every day, but—but you weren’t going to get into an _accident_. Now anything could happen.”

“Anything could happen to either of us now, Cas,” says Dean.

Cas’s eyes widen, then narrow, comically fast. “That doesn’t make me feel better,” he says.

“Not supposed to,” says Dean. He unbuckles his own seatbelt and places one hand on top of Cas’s clasped ones, which are cold despite the early September heat, shaking a little. “Look, dude. It fucking sucks to be vulnerable like this—I know. But I’ve always been human.”

“Not like this,” Cas says, his jaw starting to tremble, just slightly.

“I know,” says Dean. “Hey. I know. But there’s always been that risk, right?”

Cas doesn’t say anything, just stares down at their hands, layered together.

“Now that risk is there for both of us. We’re just… citizens. You know? Crazy as that may sound, and believe me, it sounds crazy to me. We’re kinda just breakable now, I guess.” He gestures at his shoulder, gives a hollow laugh. “But all we can do is protect each other. Same as always.”

“I’m trying,” says Cas, his voice rough. “I’m trying to protect you. But I can’t. Once, _I_ was able to ensure your health, and now I have to rely on health insurance.”

Dean feels his heart break straight down the middle. Of course he had to go and be an asshole to Cas about the health insurance shit. It’s like he has a sixth sense for the things Cas is sensitive about but only enough to make fun of them thoughtlessly.

“I’m—” he says, reaching up to stroke the side of Cas’s face. “It’s okay, Cas. I don’t expect you to singlehandedly keep me alive.”

“But I _want_ to keep you alive.”

“You do keep me alive. Every day.” He leans in close enough to rest his forehead against Cas’s. “You know I’m trying to do the same for you, right?”

He feels Cas exhale a warm breath against the lower half of his face. “I know, Dean.”

“You’re fragile too,” Dean says. “Just as fragile as me. Gonna put you in a bubble so you can never break a bone or contract a disease.”

“Worse things have happened,” Cas says, and before Dean can respond Cas is kissing him, holding him firm by the back of his head.

* * *

On the job front, Dean doesn’t hear back, keeps not hearing back. Sure, it’s only been a couple weeks, but it’s not like he’s applying at NASA, and he’s got a strong (if exaggerated) resume. Cas comforts him, tells him it’s only a matter of time, but Dean is starting to wonder if they can tell the resumes are fake, though Sam assures him one Friday over lunch that’s not possible.

“There’s, like,” Sam tells him, “you know. A _tiny_ charm attached to everything I send out.”

“A charm?” Dean says, his eyebrows shooting up near past his hairline. “Like, a spell? As in a magic spell? I thought you were done with all the hocus pocus, Sabrina.”

Sam shrugs. “It’s kind of my thing,” he says, and he takes a huge bite of his sandwich so he doesn’t have to answer any more questions.

Dean’s filling his days as best he can: his arm healed up pretty quick, so he’s back to working on the house, which takes up a good chunk of his time. A few days a week he meets Sam for lunch, and sometimes he goes out of his way to meet up with Eileen for lunch in Olathe. Lots of Netflix. Lots of staring at his phone. He’s starting to look at other jobs, thinking about maybe asking Sam to throw him together a bartending resume. He’s been looking at cars for Cas too, trying to find something sensible and affordable that’s not also massively lame. The thing about all Cas’s previous cars is that he stole them, which added a cool factor that isn’t necessarily attainable now. And when Dean asks Cas what he wants, his tastes are inconsistent at best: Mostly he likes trucks, but once he pointed at a Kia Soul downtown, said, “That one’s nice,” and Dean’s soul left his body momentarily. Honestly Dean isn’t sure where the truck thing came from. _Honestly_ , Dean’s not even sure how Cas learned to drive, and at this point he isn’t sure he should ask.

“Really, I’m not picky, Dean,” Cas says that evening in bed, as Dean scrolls relentlessly through Craigslist car listings. He snuggles up, worms an arm around Dean in a way Dean knows means _please put the computer away_. “Whatever you think is reasonable. I trust you.”

“You realize you can’t just abandon this one on the side of the road when you get tired of it, right?” Dean shuts the laptop, puts it on the bed table. “You know, like you’ve done with literally every car you’ve ever had?” He switches off the lamp, slides down under the covers, slides a hand under Cas’s shirt and pulls him close.

“I liked the Ford truck,” Cas says, and Dean can hear the thoughtful frown in his voice despite having his face buried in Cas’s neck. “To be fair, I didn’t really have a choice about leaving that one behind, because I died.”

Dean knows he should be over it, but it’s still a little weird when Cas makes jokes like that. He doesn’t like to think about it. Still has nightmares on the regular of wrapping Cas’s body, burning it, touching the ashen wings on the ground outside the cabin—of watching Cas walk into the lake—of Cas’s grip loosening from around his hand in Purgatory. And that’s only counting the dreams about things that have actually happened. Sometimes, too, when he looks in Cas’s eyes he can’t help but see him beaten, mouth totally busted, eye swollen, blood pouring down his chin. The things he’s done to Cas—the things he’s watched happen to Cas. The things he’s watched Cas do. How none of it matters, not now, and yet somehow it all matters every minute. He clutches Cas a little closer, nails digging into his back. Focuses on the warmth and the pulse beating in Cas’s neck, under Dean’s cheek. _Right here,_ Dean thinks, _he’s right here, right here._

Cas must feel the change in the air—or maybe he just feels Dean’s heart start to race, or even just the hand clawing into his back—because he kisses right behind Dean’s ear, then around, up his jaw, slowly, until he lands on his lips, light but stable.

“And now I’m alive again,” he says against Dean’s mouth, quietly, hardly pulling away at all.

“Yeah,” Dean says. He doesn’t pull away either. When he moves his mouth to speak, every word is almost a kiss but not quite, their lips brushing together. “For the second time. Since then.” His hand relaxes enough to drag his fingers in a small circle on Cas’s back.

Then Cas kisses him in earnest, a few weeks’ worth of pent-up anxiety all spilling out of both of them: the new job, the fall off the ladder, all the envy and fragility that Dean knows radiates off him, that he knows must be exhausting for Cas, but he can’t help it, because Cas is adjusting so well to the human world and Dean, the lifelong human, is floundering. And yet here’s Cas every day with all his mercy, his grace, his forgiveness for the mundane and the unforgivable, his endless patience for Dean’s bullshit, his warm, chapped mouth on Dean’s mouth, their breath intermingling, and Dean wants nothing more than to give Cas the life he deserves, the life he finally has a shot at, but no matter how hard he tries he still doesn’t know how.

He rolls on top of Cas and Cas lets him. One of Cas’s hands keeps fluttering between Dean’s upper arm, his shoulder, and the small of his back, over and over and over. After a few rotations, Dean recognizes the pattern: handprint, ladder, gunshot.

“I love you,” Dean says between increasingly frantic kisses. “You’re so good to me.”

Cas says nothing, just gasps a little as Dean grinds his hips down. They stay like that for a while, until Dean slows down enough that Cas gets impatient and flips him, climbing on top and pinning him down. Usually this is about how it goes—Dean attempts not to think consciously about the fact that they’ve done this often enough that they have a routine he can point to. It’s not that he doesn’t like it; it’s really, really not that he doesn’t like it. It’s just the routine of it all that he tries not to let unsettle him.

But tonight Cas keeps kissing Dean’s neck, slowly, thoughtfully, like he’s stalling for something.

“Dean,” he says finally, nuzzling against Dean’s temple. “Hey. What do you want?”

“Mm, come on,” Dean says. “You know what I want, baby. Same as usual.” He bites Cas’s earlobe and for a second feels Cas’s resolve waver, give over to instant gratification—his resolve to do whatever it is that he’s doing, Dean isn’t even sure. Then he kisses Dean’s mouth again, bites his lower lip gently, tugs on it just slightly when he pulls away.

“What do you want?” he repeats, and his eyes bore down over Dean. “Say it.”

Dean understands now what he’s getting at. Sometimes it’s like this: Cas likes dirty talk, which is fine—which, hey, is _good_. It’s just hard sometimes for Dean to use his words in conjunction with his body instead of in opposition to it. He thinks that’s probably part of why Cas does it, that he’s trying to teach him a lesson about communicating his needs or something using the bed as the classroom. Dean’s not gonna complain about that. He just has to work up the nerve.

“Please,” he tries, rough and ragged, so turned on his vision is starting to go a little fuzzy as Cas trails his fingers across the waistband of Dean’s boxers, from one hip to the other.

“Please what?”

“Fuck me,” Dean says, breathless. “Please fuck me.” He tugs at Cas’s shirt, trying to pull it off as quickly as possible. Cas bows a little to assist him, and when the shirt has been tossed aside somewhere to be found later, Cas smiles a lopsided smile, his hair all fucked up, and he’s the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen, the turned-off ceiling fan light fixture a dim halo above his head, and Dean wants to feel him, inside, right now.

“I can do that,” Cas says, leaning down to press a kiss to Dean’s shoulder, his clavicle. His voice buzzing into every one of Dean’s cells. “Thank you for telling me. Anything else?”

“Just—” He yanks Cas down by the hips, desperate, fingers tugging at Cas’s boxers. “Just do it, okay? Jesus.”

“Okay, Dean,” Cas hums into his neck. One hand comes to rest over Dean’s pounding heart. “I will.”

* * *

They wake up late the next morning, lie in bed for a while, then venture out to the kitchen for a late breakfast. Used to be that every day kind of blended together, so it didn’t really matter what they did when—but now that Cas is on the 9 to 5 schedule, weekends are special. Every moment they can get together, they take it. Which, all things considered, maybe isn’t as different as it was before. There are just fewer moments.

Cas lurks behind Dean for a while he cooks, still sleepy, arms around Dean’s waist, chin resting on Dean’s shoulder. Finally he pads off to the table to read the newspaper, and Dean hears him make a few quiet frustrated noises.

“What’s up in there?” he says, glancing over the divider.

“Well, I—” Cas seems hesitant to say, almost guilty. “I don’t want to alarm you.”

Consider Dean alarmed. He transfers the bacon over to a plate and heads to the doorway, crossing his arms, waiting for Cas to say something else, anything.

“Okay,” Cas says. “I’ve been having some trouble reading.”

Dean blinks at him. “Like, intellectually?”

“No,” says Cas, “no. It just seems like maybe my vision has gotten a bit… fuzzy.”

“Oh,” says Dean. His whole body relaxes. That’s nothing. “You probably just need glasses then.”

Cas considers that notion for a long time. “Glasses,” he says, chewing over the word. “I guess so.”

“That just happens when you get old.” Dean strolls back into the kitchen, barely disguising a smirk. Glasses. Now that’s rich. All these years Cas has had the personality and bearing of a nerd in an eighties movie, and finally he’s gonna look the part. He’s also gonna look real damn cute, but Dean’s not gonna give him the satisfaction of saying that part out loud until the glasses are actually on his face, because by then Dean won’t be able to help himself. It’s another reminder that Cas is human, fragile, aging—that someday Cas will die—but after last night, he’s feeling a little calmer about that. One day at a time.

“I suppose I am getting old,” Cas says after a moment. “Legally I’m, what—almost fifty? That’s how old my body must be. Though I’m not sure how any of the… extracurricular activity might have affected the aging of this form.”

Extracurricular activity—meaning the dying, the resurrecting, the Leviathans, the time in Heaven and the Empty, the acquiring and losing of grace, et cetera. All that. Dean has no idea either. He shrugs.

“Well, we’ll just see how quick you go gray, old man.”

Cas brings a hand up to his head, looking startled. Dean laughs.

After breakfast—which was probably actually lunch, given the time—they get dressed, and they’re discussing what they want to do with their weekend when there’s a knock at the door.

“Are you expecting someone?” Cas says, and Dean shakes his head.

“No idea,” he says. His instincts say to grab a gun before he opens the door. He’s trying to get past that. Maybe he shouldn’t be. He’s not sure yet. For now, he swallows the impulse, heads to the door, puts his hand on the handle. Only hesitates for a moment before turning it.

Right in front of him, it’s Claire: her hair cut short above her shoulders and shaved into an undercut on one side, her eyeliner heavy and smudged, her clothes all black.

“What’s up, assholes?” she says, obviously trying not to smile, failing.

“Claire!” says Cas, and he nudges past Dean to hug her. “It’s so good to see you. What are you doing here?”

“Just passing through,” she says, waving at Dean over Cas’s shoulder. “Heard you’re human now and I wanted to come punch you so I could see for myself.” Cas pulls away from her and tilts his head, but Claire pushes him playfully on the shoulder. “Kidding,” she says. “Jeez. And how is the great Dean Winchester?”

“He’s, uh,” says Dean. “He’s great. What’s up? You hunting or something? How’d you even find us?”

“I talked to Sam,” she says, throwing her backpack down by the door and sitting right down at the dining table. “He gave me your address.”

“Oh, so Sam gets a call and not me? Very cool.” He heads into the kitchen, shaking his head. “Beer?” he calls, then he pauses. “Wait. How old are you now?”

“Old enough to drink,” she says, and when Dean and Cas both narrow their eyes at her, she throws her head back and says, “ugh. _Legally_. You checking IDs at the door?”

He roams back into the living room, hands Cas a beer, and tosses the other one to Claire. Something in him lights up when she catches it, no problem, and cracks it open on the edge of the table.

“Sam and I have a business relationship,” she says, taking a sip. “I’ve been helping him run his whole scam. Practicing my receptionist voice. You know.” She notches her voice up at least two octaves. “ _Winchester and Winchester, how may I help you?_ ”

Dean and Cas both laugh, look at each other.

“That’s good,” says Cas. “Quite convincing.” He sits down next to her.

“What are you guys up to?”

“Honestly, not so much,” says Dean. “I’m working on renovating this piece of shit house, and Cas just got a job.”

Claire raises her eyebrows in surprise and Cas nods humbly.

“I’m working in homelessness outreach and prevention,” he says, the phrasing obviously rehearsed.

“Hm,” says Claire. “Could have used some of that about ten years ago.” Before Cas even has a chance to react, she says, “Kidding.” _Nice new catchphrase_ , Dean wants to say, but he doesn’t. “Renovating the house, huh?” She glances around. “It looks all right. The ceilings look fresh.”

“Yeah, I fell off a ladder and sprained my shoulder a little while ago fixing that up.” Dean flexes his arm. “All good now.”

“And the hospital visit was covered by our health insurance,” Cas says. Dean bites the inside of his mouth.

Claire makes a scrunched-up face. “Health insurance? Who needs that?”

“After everything, she’s _your_ daughter,” Cas says, looking up at Dean, not quite rolling his eyes but sliding them across the room fast enough that Dean gets the hint.

“Hey,” says Dean, “not biologically, thank god.”

“Biologically I’m all yours, pops,” Claire says, kicking her feet up on the table, tilting her head towards Cas.

“That’s not technically true.” Cas folds his hands on the table. “When I was resurrected in this form but your father’s soul was expelled, the genetic code of the body was altered such that—”

“Snore,” says Claire. Cas closes his mouth so soundly that Dean hears his teeth click together. “God, how did I go from having a normal amount of parents to having zero to having, like, five?”

“Speaking of,” says Dean, “how’s Jody? Haven’t heard from her in a second.”

“She’s good,” Claire says. “I talked to her yesterday.”

As Claire talks about Jody, about Kaia, about Alex’s nursing career, Dean sees the way Cas is looking at her, so tender and interested. As much strife as it’s caused them in the past, Dean can’t help but be impressed and amazed by how much Cas cares for this girl. It’s like it’s encoded into him, Jimmy’s abandoned genetics be damned. He adores watching Cas play dad to this tortured little jerk. As much as he never wants to admit it, he loves her too; of course he does. Sure, she’s infuriating—sure, when Dean looks at her, he suddenly sympathizes with every person he’s ever been an asshole to. But she tries so hard, and she wants so much. And then, of course, he starts thinking about Jack again.

He tries not to think about Jack. He really does. And then, when he inevitably fails to do so, he feels guilty for trying not to think about Jack. Thinking about Jack feels like someone sticking their hands into his chest cavity and rearranging things with no intentional sense of design. But Jack is fine, he reminds himself. Jack is literally God. He couldn’t be more fine. At least Dean didn’t fuck him up _that_ bad.

“What about you?” he says, easing back out of his head and into the conversation, trying to wipe Jack from his thoughts again. “What have you been up to?”

“Well, ever since you pretty much singlehandedly put the hunters’ union out of business,” she says, and Dean shifts his weight, clears his throat, “not a whole lot.”

“Yeah,” Dean grunts. “Uh, sorry about that.” He sits in the third chair around the table, avoiding Claire’s gaze.

“It’s whatever,” she says, waving a hand. “You left some sloppy seconds. I took out a few werewolves in Iowa a few weeks ago. There’s gonna be rugarus for, like, ever. But no demons, no _angels_ —" (she nods pointedly towards Cas) “—vamps and wolves depleted, most of the ghosts yeeted off to the afterlife by whatever gate-closing mojo you guys pulled… Business has been pretty slow.”

Which is a ticket right back to guilt-town, population Dean. This isn’t the first time he’s thought about it—when the gates of Heaven and Hell closed for good, when the monster populations started dying off at what would be a concerningly rapid pace if they weren’t monsters, Dean didn’t really mean to take things into his own hands. It was just kind of what happened. Most hunters knew he was back on the road and had stayed out of his way unless he called them up himself. He’s not so sure what that says about his reputation anymore. Maybe it says the thing he’d realized a few weeks into it, before Cas had come back: He put a whole lot of people out of work. And yeah, it’s thankless, unpaid, deadly work; yeah, maybe everybody should be grateful. But hunting isn’t just a job, it’s a lifestyle, and it’s a lifestyle Dean Winchester unthinkingly crushed under his boot when he saved the world. Some of these people have never known anything else—don’t want to. Honestly, Dean was one of them. How are they supposed to assimilate into society, get jobs, live normal lives? Theoretically that’s what Sam’s little assembly line is for, but Sam can only do so much for these people. He can’t change how they feel inside, can’t make it less of a loss.

“Dean?” Cas whispers, and Dean realizes he’s being staring into space.

“What?” he says. “Oh, uh, yeah. Well, there’s always the classics. You know. Fairies. Good ol’ Nessie. I’m sure there’s plenty of stuff we never even found, just out there, waiting.”

Cas gives him a look that’s part guilty, part pitying, part warning, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Why would we hunt Nessie?” says Claire, suddenly concerned. “She’s harmless. Right?”

“No, I’m just—” Dean starts, but Claire cuts him off.

“Anyway,” she says, running a hand through her hair, bringing her feet back down to the floor, “like I said, I’ve been helping Sam out. And I was thinking about going back to school—nor sure what for. I definitely don’t have Alex’s nurturing instinct, so nothing medical. Maybe criminology or something. Then again, if I ever need to understand the mind of a criminal, I know who to call.” She kicks Dean’s leg under the table, grinning.

“Or you could look in the mirror,” Dean says. “Jesus. Not gonna be disrespected in my own house by an infant.”

Claire grins, sticking her tongue out slightly from between her teeth. Dean has never seen her this happy, this adjusted. He’s proud of her.

“So, can I spend the night?” she says. “I can sleep on the—” Dean watches her face as the recognition dawns. “Couch.”

“There is no couch,” Cas says. “We’ll have to get a couch, Dean.”

“We’re gonna get a couch,” Dean says, holding up a hand, “we just don’t have one yet. Sorry, Claire. Hard to decorate around a remodel. You mind staying with Sam? He has a real nice guest room.”

“Fine,” she says, “but I’ll miss daddies dearest.”

Dean looks at Cas, smirking, but—speaking of _daddies_ —he can see Cas devising a sermon behind the eyes. Here he goes.

“Claire,” Cas says, leaning forward seriously and speaking slowly, carefully, “Dean and I have something to tell you.”

Jesus Christ. Dean leans back in his chair, physically removing himself from the area as much as possible without standing and leaving.

“You should know that we’re—well, as you know, we’re living here together, alone… but together… And there’s a reason for that. We—Dean and I—we’re—"

“Duh,” she says, and clearly she knew what he was going to say the entire time and was just enjoying making him squirm. “You’re together. Glad to see you weirdos finally got your shit figured out.”

“Oh,” says Cas, looking the tiniest bit disappointed. Dean, meanwhile, is relieved that they don’t have to plaster up their coming out announcement. “You already know. Sam told you?” He looks in minor desperation to Dean, who shrugs.

“First of all, it was obvious the whole time,” she says. “So, second, no. Sam didn’t tell me. But you’re living together, and there’s only one bedroom, and you look at each other like _that_ , so.”

They tear their eyes off each other, both glancing rapidly around the room, pretending they weren’t staring into each other’s eyes mid-conversation with someone else.

“Hysterical,” Claire says.

“The whole time?” says Dean. “Come on. No way.”

She takes another long sip of her beer. “All I can say is I’m not the first preteen to have Daddy leave town and come back different with a hot twink on his arm.”

Unfortunately, she has a point. Dean coughs.

“Hot?” says Cas. “Twink?” Dean can’t tell if he’s unfamiliar with the terminology or just disturbed by its application here.

“Okay, well,” Dean says, standing and heading towards the door, “you better tell Sam you’re headed over. We’ll come by for dinner. If he knew you were coming, I’m sure he’s got something planned.”

Claire rubs her hands together, raises her eyebrows.

“Don’t get too excited,” Dean says. “He’s a vegan or something.”

“Ew,” says Claire. “Gross.”

Cas stands too, shaking his head. “I’ll take your bag back out to the car,” he tells Claire, and then Dean and Claire are alone in the house. She gets up too, heads over towards to Dean—stuffs her hands in her pockets, then brings one back out to punch Dean in the shoulder. “You’ve gone soft, Dean-o.”

“Hey,” Dean says, offended, but she holds up a finger.

“I’m proud of you,” she says. “You’re not the angry guy I used to know. That’s a good thing.”

Dean thinks about saying something, but what could he say? She’s right. When she met him—really met him—Dean was deep into the Mark of Cain, losing himself, losing everything. He’s not that person anymore, though he was for a long time, long after the Mark was gone. Whatever semblance of humanity he managed to hold onto was mostly thanks to Cas. Claire saw him kill; Claire watched him destroy. It’s a wonder she’s still around at all. But here she is.

“I’m… I’m proud of you too,” he says. “Look at you, all grown up. Semi-functional.”

“Semi,” she says, smirking, one hand on the doorframe. “See you at dinner.”

* * *

They get home late from dinner with Claire, Sam, and Eileen, Cas a little buzzed from all the wine, Dean mostly sober. Claire had been so relieved to see Sam made chicken that she nearly cried, and spent the whole meal stuffing food into her face with her hands like she hadn’t eaten in days. When Dean asked her if Jody hadn’t taught her better than that, she’d said, “Yeah, but none of you did.” They deserved that one.

“I hope she’s getting along well on the road,” Cas says as they’re getting ready for bed, stumbling just a little as he takes off his shoes. “I know she said she is—I know she loves it, but…”

“She’s good,” says Dean. He knows for a fact; he wouldn’t let her out there if she wasn’t. “You’re sweet for worrying about her, though.”

“Maybe we should send some food with her. She seemed so hungry.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean says, and he’s about to say _that’s just life on the road_ , but Cas knows that. Cas has been there now. And maybe it’s fucked up, Dean realizes, to expect Claire to pull it off by herself just because he has. It’s not like she’s totally alone—she’s got a home to come back to, several even. But out there it’s a different story, even when the night’s a little less bumpy. “I’ll gather up the nonperishables.”

Cas smiles, warm and hazy, and drops forward to kneel on the bed. He reaches out for Dean’s hands, pulls him down into a kiss. It’s good, a good moment. And, of course, all Dean can think about is saying the one thing that would ruin it.

“You know,” he says, pulling back, “it—it all made me miss Jack.”

And there it is. The floodgates are open. Cas blinks at him, then lets go of Dean’s hands. Sits back on his heels. Looks down at his own hands, now folded in his lap.

“You haven’t mentioned Jack since I’ve been back,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Dean. He sits on the edge of the bed, unwilling to face Cas directly. “I know.”

There’s a long silence. Dean shouldn’t have said anything, he knows it. It was better to just pretend Jack never existed, to forget about everything that happened. Jack’s fine. He’s fine far away from Dean. That’s all there is to it.

Cas sighs, then turns his face up towards the ceiling. “You should know he forgives you for everything,” he says eventually. “I didn’t think it was my place to speak for him, but, if we’re having this conversation…”

“He forgives me?” Dean turns all the way around, feeling stupid and vulnerable, cross-legged on the bed. “How do you know?”

“I was with him,” Cas says, like it’s obvious.

Dean doesn’t comprehend. “What?”

“I was with him,” Cas says slowly, “in Heaven.”

“Oh,” says Dean. And—yes. Logically, he knew that. Duh. That was the deal they’d struck with the Empty: it could have its peace and quiet if it agreed to spit all its inhabitants back up to Heaven or down to Hell, respectively. With Jack being God and everything, it checks out that Cas would have been hanging with him in Heaven. Dean had just never really let himself think much about it. “I mean, yeah. But, you know, I don’t really know how it works now. You were with him?”

“Every day,” Cas says.

“So…” Dean’s mind feels totally blank, like he’s looking at an impossible equation. “So that was your Heaven? Being with Jack?”

“Not exactly,” says Cas. “I wasn’t really _in_ my own Heaven, per se. Jack has worked towards dismantling those structures, for the most part, and I was a part of that work. I was there as an angel, standing at the right hand of God. Of Jack.”

“Shit,” says Dean. He imagines Cas, who rebelled against the Lord—his own father—and betrayed his siblings, who fell from Heaven, who raised Jack from the moment he was able to do so, back in his old home, technically subservient to his own son. “Must have been kinda weird.”

“Yeah,” says Cas, laughing a quiet laugh. “A little bit weird.”

“Talk about daddy issues.”

“I think we all have a lot to say on the topic of daddy issues,” Cas says, and at that they both laugh. The tension between them loosens. Dean reaches out to stroke Cas’s knee. “But I was so happy to be with him.”

“You might not wanna talk about it,” Dean says, “but how is he?”

“He’s good,” says Cas. “He likes the work. He stays fairly hands-off—he says he doesn’t want to get involved and mess everything up, so he’ll just let things run their course. Maybe someday things will be different, but… Well, he’s the Almighty. He can make that decision when he wants to.”

“You ever worry about the fact that we installed a preschooler as the leader of the universe in a coup?” Dean says, grinning, and Cas smiles back. Nods slowly.

“Maybe sometimes,” Cas says. “But I’ve seen him at work—maybe his innocence is a benefit. He’s wise and good and pure. He has what he needs.”

Deans looks away from Cas’s eyes, focuses on the little tuft of hair right by his ear. He reaches to smooth it down. “And… And he forgives me?”

Cas takes the hand planted on his knee and brings it up to his mouth to kiss Dean’s knuckles. He says, “He loves you, Dean. And he knows everything now. He understands.”

With the burn of tears insistent in his eyes, Dean blinks quick.

“I prayed to him,” he says. “I asked him to send you back.”

“I wasn’t ready,” Cas says plainly. “I wasn’t ready to face you.”

So they heard. They both heard, and Cas waited it out. It hurts a little to hear. But Dean nods.

“That makes sense,” he says. “You earned some time to think about it.”

“I made it back eventually,” Cas says, squeezing his hand.

“You didn’t have to come back for me.” Cas looks like he’s going to say something, but Dean keeps going. “I mean that. I’m so, so glad you did, but—if you were happy up there with Jack—”

“I told you when I arrived,” Cas says, “I didn’t do this all for you. I did it for me. I wanted to be with you. I want to. I want to be human. And like I said, as nice as it was to be with Jack, it was a little weird. No matter what changes, Heaven will always have… certain connotations for me.”

“I feel you,” says Dean. “I get it.” He collapses back onto the bed. “Man. I’m proud of that kid.”

“Me too,” Cas says quietly, leaning back as well. “I—” He stops, like maybe he doesn’t want to say what he’s about to say. “I pray to him sometimes. Down here.”

“Yeah?” Dean turns to look at him. “He ever talk back?”

“Not really,” Cas says. He looks more contemplative than sad. “It’s more that he gives a sense of his presence.”

“Right,” says Dean. He only kind of knows what that means. It sounds like the kind of stuff people usually say about God—stuff that he knows for sure wasn’t true about Chuck. But maybe Jack is leaning into it. Maybe he’s not even doing it on purpose. Or maybe it’s just that Cas is special, being Jack’s father and everything. Dean hasn’t even tried praying to Jack since right before he started praying to Cas again.

“You’re welcome to join me,” Cas says. “If you ever want to.”

“Maybe we can call him up on the holidays.” Dean grins. “Then again, maybe he’ll be busy taking other calls. We can try for Arbor Day. And his birthday.”

“Those are a little close together,” Cas says. “Maybe Groundhog Day.”

“Maybe Groundhog Day,” Dean agrees. He sinks down just far enough to put his head on Cas’s shoulder.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're still chugging along here, folks! hope u enjoy!
> 
> (also: cw for mention of suicidal ideation)

When Cas’s legally recognized birthday rolls around, they both get a present: Cas gets a truck and Dean gets a job. Dean has just picked the truck up from a guy on Craigslist—a fairly normal interaction, all things considered, though he convinced Sam to come as backup on his lunch break—and is pulling it into the driveway when he gets a call.

“Hello?” he says, hopping out of the truck as Sam pulls the Impala in behind him.

A gruff voice on the other line says, “Is this Dean?”

“Depends on who’s asking,” he says, and whoever it is on the other line laughs as Sam steps out of the Impala and gives Dean a quizzical nod. Dean has given up all but one of his cell phones to Sam’s little side gig, so if this is some hunter calling, he’s not sure how they got his number.

“This is Tom Nowotny from Collins Automotive,” the voice says. “Now am I talkin’ to Dean?”

“Oh,” says Dean, “sorry, yeah, this is Dean.” He pulls the phone away from his ear just an inch and mouths _auto shop_ to Sam, who raised an eyebrow and gives a questioning thumbs up. Dean shrugs.

“Listen, son,” says Tom, “I’m impressed by your resume and, well, we’re a little short-handed here. Normally I’d give you an interview, but how’s about I just give you a probationary period on the job next week, since we need a hand and all, and if we like each other you can stick around?”

“That—that sounds great.”

Sam’s thumbs up becomes more aggressive, now accompanied by vigorous nodding.

“All right,” says Tom. “Well. I guess I’ll see you Monday morning, seven sharp. We open at eight but I’ll have to show you around.”

“Seven on Monday,” says Dean, “got it.” Sam spreads his arms wide, grinning, and Dean waves him off. “Anything else I need to know before then?”

“That’ll be about all.”

“Concise,” says Dean. “I like it. A man after my own heart, Mr. Nowotny.”

Tom laughs again. “All right, then, Dean. You take care. See you Monday.”

“See you then,” says Dean, and Sam is already grabbing his shoulder, shaking him a little.

“There’s that resume magic!” he says. “I told you, man! You got the job?”

“Well, one of ‘em.” Dean applied to at least ten garage jobs, and this is the only one he’s heard back from. But it just takes one yes, he guesses. “Whatever abracadabra bullshit you pulled on my resume sure took a while to kick in.”

“I didn’t actually use magic to get you this job,” Sam says, looking mildly offended. “I told you, it’s just a spell so nobody catches wise that it’s fake. The rest is just my prodigious resume-writing skills.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right. Better get back to your prodigious desk at your prodigious job, then.”

Sam shakes his head but doesn’t say anything else, just barely conceals a smile.

“Cas is gonna love the truck,” he says, and he turns to head back to his own car, parked on the street. “Have him drive it over for dinner tonight,” he says over his shoulder. “Oh, and tell him he can’t just dump this one on the side of the road when he gets tired of it.”

“I’ve tried,” Dean says, laughing. “Believe me.”

He feels weirdly nervous when he picks Cas up from work that evening, like they’re going to the prom or something. He knows Cas will like the truck; he probably doesn’t even have expectations about what a birthday is supposed to be like. This is his first one. Dean just wants it to be nice. He and Sam don’t even normally celebrate birthdays, but it’s Cas. Cas should get to have at least one nice, normal birthday in his life.

“How’s the birthday boy?” Dean says when Cas slides into the car, and Cas gives him a modest smile before leaning in to kiss him.

“All is good on the birthday front,” he says. “Uneventful.”

“Uneventful?” Dean says, turning to look around as he backs out of the parking space. “Come on, you didn’t tell anybody?”

“I didn’t think it was necessary. I didn’t want to draw undue attention to myself. You and Sam never seem to celebrate birthdays.”

“Well, yeah, but—” Dean can’t think of a clever retort, so he just says, “Do as I say, not as I do, okay? And I say you deserve a good birthday. Birthdays are _all about_ getting undue attention.”

Cas just lifts Dean’s hand to his mouth, kisses his knuckles softly.

When they pull up to the house, Cas squints and leans forward to get a better look at the truck sitting in the driveway.

“Who’s here?”

“You are,” says Dean, totally giddy.

“What?”

“Get out, come on.” Dean is already halfway out of the car and Cas is slow behind him, still trying to solve the mystery.

“Whose truck is this?” Cas asks again, and this time Dean can’t hold back.

“It’s yours,” he says, wrapping an arm around Cas’s waist. “Happy birthday, Cas.”

It takes Cas a second to process. Then he turns his face to Dean, looking almost euphoric, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open.

“A gift,” he says.

“A gift,” says Dean, and he tilts Cas’s chin up with his free hand, leaning in for a gentle kiss. “Your birthday present. Come on, check it out.” He pushes Cas towards the truck: it’s blue and white, looking for all the world like if an old guy got transformed into a 4x4, or an old-school radio grew wheels. Cas strokes the side of it like it’s a nervous horse. “It’s a ’72 Chevy K20.”

“Those words mean nothing to me,” Cas says, turning around, still starry-eyed, “but I like it very much. I like it so much, Dean. Thank you.”

Dean is honestly a bit surprised by the reaction. He was confident that Cas would like it, given all their discussions about what kind of car he wanted, but he assumed that for the most part they’d both treat it like a practical necessity. He certainly didn’t think he’d see Cas on the verge of tears about it.

“I mean, you knew you were gettin’ a car,” he says, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“No, I know,” says Cas. “I just—a birthday present.”

Then Dean thinks of all the times over the summer when he’d picked something up for Cas without being asked (t-shirts, books) and Cas would go all moony about it. He thinks, for the first time in a long time, about the Zeppelin mixtape he made Cas a few years ago. How Cas had tried to give it back—how Dean had to explain, _it’s a gift. You keep those._ In the grand scheme of things, Cas found out how gifts work, like, yesterday. He’s still shocked by them. Still doesn’t think he deserves them.

“Of course I got you a birthday present,” Dean says quietly, stepping forward and taking Cas’s hand firmly. “And I’m gonna fix her up real nice for you too.” He clears his throat. “Uh, at the garage. I hope.”

“At the—” Cas narrows his eyes again, then realizes. “Did you get a job offer?”

“Just today,” Dean says, nodding, sheepish. He’s not sure why. “I start a test run next Monday, and if they like me by the end of the week, I’m hired for good.”

“Oh, Dean, that’s wonderful.” And before Dean knows what hit him, he’s being subsumed into a tight, warm embrace. “Congratulations.”

“All right,” he says through a smile, “okay, save the congrats for when I get the real offer. This is your day. Now get in the truck and let’s take her for a joy ride.” When Cas lets go of him and heads over, Dean tosses him the keys from his pocket, and Cas catches them with surprising proficiency—he may not be an angel anymore, but his strength and coordination are still striking. He just also still looks like the same dorky little guy as always—hell, maybe dorkier—so it always takes Dean by surprise to see him catch things, lift things, throw things.

“Dean?” Cas says when they’re both in the truck. He runs his fingers over the steering wheel, admiring. Dean feels the stick of pride in his chest.

“Yeah?”

Cas looks up at him, his expression light but serious. “The truck doesn’t have to be a woman.”

* * *

The weekend before Dean starts at the garage, he realizes that the indoor renovations are pretty much done. Right on time. Sure, he still has to repaint the outside of the house—Sam keeps promising to help him and Cas with that but is always suspiciously busy when Dean wants to start painting—and Cas wants to start a garden in the backyard, which definitely still needs some major attention, but at least now they can get a couch. He and Cas spend all afternoon that Saturday rotating between secondhand stores and eventually find a leather sofa in good shape that smells normal and has a pullout bed.

“It’s perfect,” says Cas, lounging back on it as if they’re not still in the store. Dean yanks him to his feet.

“Save it for the living room,” he says, “come on.”

They load the couch into the back of Cas’s truck, and after they’ve secured it, Cas places a hand on the small of his back and takes a deep breath in through his nose.

“I think I’m old and feeble now,” he says. “Having a birthday aged me.”

“That’s generally what they’re for,” Dean says, patting Cas’s bicep and smirking. He’s still weirdly strong, but it’s kind of fun to see him reap the consequences of physical labor. It scratches an envious itch in Dean’s barely subconscious masculine complex. It’s also just kind of cute. “Still need to see about gettin’ you some glasses, old man.”

Cas sighs.

Once they’ve hauled it into the living room, the couch is perfect—exactly what Dean wanted, though he hadn’t really let himself picture anything before this. He feels a twinge of something in his chest, something he hasn’t felt since he lived in the bunker, since Cas helped him set up the Dean Cave. Nesting. It feels, just for a second, like maybe this could be a real home after all, not just a place he’s obligated to be. Like maybe Dean is allowed to have what he wants without worrying about what’s coming to destroy it. This place can be what he wants it to be; it can look how he wants it to look. For now it’s just a couch, though. It’s not a big deal.

“Now Claire can stay with us when she visits,” Cas says, his eyes glittering with hope behind a veil of pragmatism. And that feeling that’s already winding down in Dean suddenly slams back into him with full force: A home, he thinks, is where the people you love can come and visit you.

“Yeah,” he says, turning on his heel and heading into the kitchen so Cas doesn’t see him tear up. “Yeah. She can.”

* * *

Monday morning Dean wakes up a little earlier than usual—5:30 AM. Even when he’s not working he rarely sleeps past eight out of force of habit, so it’s not too much of a difference; meanwhile, Cas’s sleep schedule still hasn’t quite settled into a reasonable rhythm yet, so sometimes he wakes up bright and early and sometimes (most of the time) he sleeps as late as possible, grumpy and squinty until he has a cup of coffee in hand. What with his 9–5 work schedule, he’s been getting up around eight, but generally he acts like that’s still too early. Dean finds it equally irritating and endearing. Then again, he has to cut the guy some slack; this is only the second time in his millennia-long life that he’s had to develop a sleep-wake schedule, and the first time he’s had to do it while punching the clock. It takes some work.

He tries slipping out of bed undetected, but right as he starts to slide his feet onto the floor, Cas grabs his wrist.

“Stay,” Cas mumbles, eyes shut. “Warm.”

“Gotta get ready for work,” Dean whispers, and he leans down to press a kiss to Cas’s forehead. The moment is so normal, so domestic, that Dean feels a pang of disgust. Then it subsides and he’s just in love.

Cas makes a tired, disappointed noise that saws Dean’s heart in half, and he thinks about getting back into bed for a few minutes, snuggling up to Cas again, getting warm and cozy. Falling back asleep. Being late for his first day of work. Okay, he probably shouldn’t. He ruffles Cas’s hair a little and stands. Immediately, Cas rolls over and pulls the blankets back over his head.

Dean gets dressed and makes himself some breakfast—they finally replaced the old, broken range with one that actually heats to reasonable temperatures and has functioning burners, which makes Dean want to cook a four-course meal every day for the next year. It’s a little early for that, though, so he sits at the little kitchen table and surveys: polished hardwood floors; fresh ceiling tiles; functional kitchen appliances. A couch. Okay, so they need some more furniture. And they could still stand to paint the walls. But it feels like he’s crossed over a hill and is rolling down. Maybe that’s not a good thing, actually. Is it a good thing? He’s not sure. He clutches his coffee and lets the mug burn his hands a little, just to wake him up.

He thinks about Cas, asleep right down the hall. This really is his life now. Cas in his bed every night, every morning; a house; a job. Dinner at Sam’s several times a week. Claire visiting on occasion. Jack, out there, somewhere, kind of. Every few days he has to process it all anew. But at least he’s processing. A few years ago he would have ignored reality, whatever it was, until it came to collect. Now? Well, he’s here, at least. He’s present. Or he’s trying to be.

But he’s got an itchy trigger finger, in more ways than one. He misses hunting. He’s jealous of Claire, he recognizes, actually jealous, a burning deep in his gut. It should be a good thing that the monster populations are depleting; that’s what they were always trying to do, right? Get rid of the damned things. But this isn’t that. He doesn’t get a choice. He doesn’t get to _do_ anything. He just has to sit and play house while the life he knew his whole life circles the drain. Well, he doesn’t _have_ to—but he is. For Sam. For Cas. None of them ever really talk about it. Probably better than way.

Dean just wants to kill something, he realizes, guilt and craving simmering deep down inside him. He just wants to shoot something, stab it until it’s dead. He wants to be the end of something. He wants—he wants to be in control.

He’s gotta get to work.

* * *

Tom is waiting for him outside the garage when he pulls up, an older guy, maybe early sixties, with glasses and a scruffy beard. He’s leaning against a car out front—Toyota Corolla, Dean notes with a hum. Dean sees raised eyebrows as he pulls up and feels the swell of pride that always accompanies people taking notice of his Baby. It distracts from the low buzz of discontent that’s still pulsing through him from breakfast.

He steps out, heads over to shake Tom’s hand.

“Mr. Nowotny,” he says. “Dean.”

“Figured.” Tom eyes the Impala again. “’67?”

“Yes sir,” Dean says, unable to stifle a grin. He raps on the back window with his knuckles. “In great shape, too. Basically rebuilt her from scratch several times over.”

Tom gives him a look he can’t quite parse—maybe _you’re full of shit_. “You sure about that, son?”

“You let me in that garage and I’ll prove it,” Dean says. Maybe he shouldn’t be so cocky within minutes of meeting the guy—and maybe he shouldn’t bring attention to the fact that she’s needed reconstructing more than once—but come on. He has the right.

Tom just nods, eyebrows raised again, pursuing his lips slightly.

“All right then,” he says. “Well, come on.”

Tom shows him around: the garage, the back, the office. It’s a small place, all things considered.

“So you own this place?” Dean asks once the tour is over, but before anybody else arrives, and Tom smirks.

“That I do,” he says. “Inherited it from my uncle about forty years ago. And I don’t plan to retire any time soon. I spend most of my time back in the office now, so it’s always good to have a few more men on hand. I’m too old for the bending and the grabbing but not too old to keep an eye on things.”

Dean opens his mouth to crack a joke about bending and grabbing, but decides this might not be the right time.

“How are you with the public?”

Dean racks his brain for the shit Sam put on his resume. Customer service? He can’t remember. He really should have given it a once-over this morning.

“Well,” he says, hoping dearly that the sentence doesn’t get away from him, “I don’t like people. I do like cars. But I’m very charming, so I make do.” He flashes a patented Dean Winchester smile. Tom looks unimpressed but sympathetic.

“Don’t like people, huh?”

“I like…” He thinks, leaning up against the counter. Cas, Sam. Eileen. “Three people.” Claire. “Okay, four people.” Does Jack count as people? Then there’s Jody and Donna. He doesn’t mind the other girls but he’s pretty sure Kaia’s not his biggest fan. Garth is fine. “The number of living people I like is more than three, less than twenty.”

“Seems like a good number.” The closest thing Dean has seen to a real smile appears on Tom’s face. “You got a family?”

“My brother lives across town with his girlfriend,” he says. “And I’ve got—” He panics. Shit. Shit. He doesn’t know how to talk about Cas in public. He’s never really had to. “Uh, you know. The ol’ ball and chain.”

“Kids?”

“Oh, uh. Well, that’s… complicated.”

Tom cocks his head and Dean kicks himself. How the fuck would having kids be complicated for a normal person? But he can’t just talk about Jack. What would he even say? What would he _want_ to say?

“Stepkids?” Tom offers.

“Yeah,” Dean says, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Yeah, something like that.”

Thankfully, one of the guys shows up and saves Dean from having to explain his absolutely idiotic word choice.

“Jake Llewelyn,” the man says in a smoker’s rasp, shaking his hand. He’s maybe a decade younger than Tom, which makes him a decade older than Dean, and suddenly Dean feels very strangely situated in time. “You the new hire?”

“Yes sir,” he says again, and he considers interrogating the “sir” impulse, but decides against it. He knows well enough where it’s coming from.

Two kids—Devon and Jermaine, both early twenties—show up and shake Dean’s hand too, and then Tom says, “Well that’s everybody,” and claps him on the shoulder. “Time to get to work.”

By the time Dean heads home, he’s forgotten almost all about his morning unease. He likes working in the garage—the guys are fine and the work is fun. He changed somebody’s oil and felt on top of the world about it. He can do this, he thinks. He can actually do this.

He gets home before Cas and turns on the TV, collapsing back onto the couch. It’s comfy. He could get used to this. He probably should. Maybe he’ll make a nice dinner, he thinks before he remembers that they haven’t been grocery shopping in possibly an alarming amount of time.

He waits for Cas, and waits, and waits. He checks his phone when it’s been eighteen minutes. When it’s been twenty-four. Thirty-six. They get off work at the same time and have about the same commute in opposite directions, so he’s not sure what gives. Cas didn’t text him and he always gets home at almost the same exact time. Maybe he went out with his work friends. But why not text him? This is nothing, right? This is nothing. Back when they lived in the bunker, Cas would just disappear for days—weeks—without responding to texts or calls. Why should it be any different now?

Dean’s thoughts start to spiral: He’s hurt. He was in a car accident. He’s unconscious and tied up in a vamp nest somewhere. He’s dead, he’s already dead. Cas can take care of himself, Dean reminds himself, fingers digging into the sofa. He may not be an angel anymore but he hunted as a human all summer and got damn good at it. He’s still strong, too, even without the angel strength—Dean catches him doing push-ups sometimes and feels conflicted about it. So if he’s fighting his way out of a monster mash right now he’ll be fine. Then there’s the alternative, which loops in Dean’s brain more quietly, but for longer: He just decided not to come home.

When he finally hears Cas’s truck pull in, it’s been almost an hour. He has a text typed and ready to send: _Where are u?_ Suddenly, he’s humiliated, glad he didn’t send it.

Cas comes in holding bags, and Dean turns to say something passive aggressive, or maybe just aggressive, but then he notices that the bags say “Home Depot.” What was Cas doing at the Home Depot for almost an hour?

“Hello, Dean,” he says, calm and mild as usual, with the requisite hint of gruffness.

“You didn’t text me,” Dean says, and he meant to say hello first, but, okay, they’re doing this.

Cas just blinks at him. “Oh,” he says, placing the bags gingerly on the table. “I guess I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“I just—” he starts, but the whole thing feels stupid now. Futile. He scratches the back of his head. “Home Depot?”

Cas brightens, dumps a bag out on the table.

“You said we needed to paint the walls,” he says. “So I got paint samples.”

“Paint samples,” Dean says blankly. He stands and walks over, mostly operated by a confounded curiosity. Sure enough, it’s just a metric ton of paint samples: mostly varying shades of beige and dark blue, with a few random bright colors (coral?) tossed in for good measure.

“I think these are good selections,” Cas says seriously. “I wanted to give you options.”

“Options,” Dean parrots, still staring at the samples.

“I mean, if we’re going to make a home here—” Cas says, placing a hand in the small of Dean’s back, “well, if we’re going to be here forever, we might as well like the wall color.”

And that does it. Dean’s head starts to swim. _Be here forever_ , he thinks. _If we’re going to be here forever_. The feeling from early this morning comes flooding back. He digs his fingernails into his palm. Paint samples. Why would Cas get paint samples? Why would he care about this? It’s the stupidest thing Dean can imagine to put energy into. Why would he go to Home Depot without texting Dean? Why would he just disappear? What if he just decided to disappear while Dean was at work one day? At work, doing regular person things, wishing he was out in the woods strangling something that looks almost human?

“I gotta—I’m going,” he chokes out abruptly. Cas furrows his brow at him in question. “Sam texted me,” he lies, “right before you got here, and he needs something, so I’m just—yeah. Gonna go over there.”

“Oh,” says Cas, dragging his hand slowly off Dean’s back, as if he’s scared to remove it. “Anything I can help with?”

“No,” says Dean, “nope.”

“Are you going to have dinner over there?”

“Not sure,” says Dean, “but there’s stuff in the fridge, probably. So don’t wait up.” He grabs his jacket and his phone and is halfway out the door before Cas even has a chance to reply beyond a surprised “okay.” Dean doesn’t want to hear _bye_ right now. He doesn’t want to hear _I love you_.

All the way over to Sam’s, he white-knuckles the steering wheel, doing his best to keep his mind empty. A few thoughts break through: He doesn’t want to be mad at Cas. There’s no reason to be mad at Cas. Besides, he had a good first day at work. He shouldn’t be feeling like this. Or at least he shouldn’t be acting like this. But he can’t help it. The fucking paint samples. He doesn’t know what hit him.

He knocks and waits at the door, hands stuffed in his pockets, bouncing lightly up and down on his feet and chewing the inside of his mouth. When Sam comes to the door he looks surprised, which somehow makes Dean even angrier.

“Oh, hey,” says Sam, “I didn’t know you guys were coming over.” Then he peeks out the door and glances around. “Where’s Cas?”

“Need to talk,” says Dean, pushing past Sam with a hand on his chest. He sees Eileen in his line of vision, standing in the kitchen, but she’s looking over Dean’s head. Sam must be signing something at her behind him. She nods, finally looks down, gives Dean a little wave. Dean nods back once, but she’s already back to chopping vegetables. Sam clamps a hand down on his shoulder.

“Garage,” he says.

“Beer,” says Dean.

Sam huffs out a laugh, retrieves two beers from the fridge, and trails off into the garage without checking to see if Dean is behind him.

“Rough first day?” he says, handing a bottle off to Dean.

“Actually, great first day,” Dean grumbles.

“Okay…” Sam says in that infuriating way he does where he’s waiting for Dean to finish the thought.

Dean takes a drink, then another. He hasn’t been drinking so much lately but he feels like if he doesn’t put this one away right now he might die.

“I don’t know, man,” Dean finally says, looking anywhere but at Sam. “I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s new,” Sam mutters.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Sam just rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay. You’ve been thinking?”

“About Cas,” he says, the words dry and unpracticed in his mouth. “I don’t think I can do it.”

“Oh,” says Sam, suddenly softer. The gaze he sets on Dean is equal parts concern and suspicion. “Did something happen?”

Dean shrugs. Another sip. “No. I don’t know. Just—feels weird.”

“Weird?” says Sam. “I mean, it’s _been_ weird, dude. Y’all’s whole thing is just being weird at each other.”

“Whatever,” says Dean. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Yes we do. I’m serious. You guys have always had a complicated thing going on and you always work it out. He came back to life for you, Dean—I’m sure we don’t need to have that conversation again.”

“We don’t,” says Dean, the weight of guilt and resentment settling in his chest, though he’s not sure who it’s directed towards.

“Okay, so what happened? What did he do?”

The words feel ridiculous falling out of Dean’s mouth.

“He… he went to Home Depot.”

Sam looks at him. Closed mouth. Narrowed eyes.

“I don’t think I heard you right,” he says.

“He didn’t text me,” Dean says with more force. “He was gone for like an hour. I thought something happened.”

Sam blinks so many times in a row that if Dean didn’t know any better he’d think he was glitching.

“He doesn’t need to tell you everything he does, Dean.” He says it like he’s speaking to a child. “He’s not, like, under your lock and key. He doesn’t need your permission to go to the hardware store.”

“I know that,” Dean says, a little more loudly than he anticipated. “I get that, okay? I just—” He throws back some more beer, wipes his mouth. “I thought maybe he wasn’t coming back.”

“Well, if he doesn’t come back, maybe that’s because you make him feel like he can’t go anywhere.”

Dean squeezes his fingers around the neck of the beer bottle. For a second he pictures himself throwing it at Sam’s head. Doesn’t.

“Okay,” says Sam, backtracking a bit, “that’s maybe a little mean. But you get what I’m saying, right? I don’t think there’s really a problem there until you make a problem.”

“So I make problems.”

“I’m not saying you _don’t_ make problems. I’m just saying you have an option now… to make less problems.”

“Options,” Dean says again, and the disgust he felt at the paint samples drops back into his body like a brick from a ten-story building. “You know why he was at Home Depot? He got all these stupid fuckin’… paint chips. Wants to paint the walls in the house blue. Live there forever.”

“He used the word _forever_ and it scared you,” Sam says, like it’s finally clicking into place.

“Yeah, well,” says Dean, finishing off his beer. “Home Depot was before that.”

“Come on, dude,” Sam says. “Don’t let that shit get to you. It’s _Cas_.”

“I know,” says Dean, and he closes his eyes for a second. “I know it is.”

“He’s not trying to, like, trap you. You know he sees time and stuff a little differently than a regular guy.” When Dean doesn’t answer, he keeps going. “And maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I see literally no reason it shouldn’t be forever, with the shit you guys have gone through together.”

“It’s just—” Dean says from between clenched teeth. “It’s just the idea.”

“So don’t think about it. I don’t know.” Sam shakes his head. “Take it day by day. Just don’t go around pretending you’re gonna leave Cas. That’s insane.”

“What if that’s what I want?” Dean is still holding the empty beer bottle, fidgeting with it, rolling it between his fingers.

“If that’s what you want, Dean, okay. But it’s not. I know it’s not. You love him.”

There’s a long, quiet moment. Sam is right, of course.

All Dean can manage to say is, “Yeah.”

Sam regards him cautiously for a second. “What else is bothering you? I can tell this is the top layer of, like, seven layers of Dean Stuff.”

“Do you miss hunting?” he says before he can stop himself. “‘cause it seems like you don’t.”

Sam shuts his eyes and exhales. Like he knew this was coming.

“Of course I do,” he says, but he says it carefully. “I love hunting. You know that.”

“Love. Present tense.” Dean sets the bottle down hard on the work table. “What, you goin’ out on hunts without me? You and Eileen?”

“You’re being paranoid,” says Sam. “Come on. It isn’t like that, man. But if it was—would you blame me?” He pauses, swallows, like he has to get up the nerve to say what’s next. “You had to retire, Dean. Hunting isn’t good for you.”

“It’s the only thing that’s good for me.” Dean’s fist clenches, unclenches. “It’s the only thing I know, Sam, and it’s gettin’ ripped right out from under me, and if this has anything to do with you, I need to know.”

“What? What are you talking about?” Sam looks genuinely confused, then affronted. “What, you think I cast some spell and, like, genocided all the monsters?”

“I don’t know,” says Dean, voice tight, “I don’t know. It just—you adapted so _easily_ , man. You and Eileen both. I thought you were both in it for life. You talked about it, you promised. And here you are with your fuckin’ civilian jobs, steady paychecks. It’s that domestic fantasy, dude. You’re living it. I didn’t think you wanted that.”

Sam just raises an eyebrow. “You have a civilian job and a steady paycheck now.”

“Yeah, but I don’t feel good about it!” Dean’s mouth is dry again. He wants another beer but he doesn’t want to ask Sam to get him one and he doesn’t want to go in the house and risk Eileen seeing him like this. “I did it because I had to. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I like it. But I want to be hunting, man. I wanna—I wanna be out there killing something, you know? Do you never feel that way?”

“Of course I do.” For the first time tonight, Dean believes Sam fully—believes the steady look in his eyes. “In a lot of ways this is just as hard for me as it is for you. Believe me. But, first of all, I let Eileen help, because she knows where I’m at, and she feels the same way. You ever let Cas help?”

The answer, of course, is that Dean doesn’t even talk about this stuff with Cas. He avoids it as much as possible. He doesn’t want to make Cas feel guilty—although he’s not totally sure what Cas would feel guilty for.

He just grunts.

“Okay,” says Sam. “Step one, you actually talk to Cas about how you’re feeling. All of this. Maybe he feels the same way. If you’re not talking about it, you don’t know.”

Nothing from Dean this time. He just takes his eyes on a grand tour of the garage.

“Second of all,” and Sam sticks two fingers mightily in the air, “I’m still involved. I didn’t quit cold turkey. I set up the network, you know, the Apocalypse refugee stuff, the ex-hunter stuff. I’m still doing magic sometimes. I’m still connected.”

“What, so you’re Bobby now?”

And they both know which Bobby he means, though they rarely talk about the difference. The Bobby from Apocalypse World is fine, but he’s not their Bobby. They never see him. And he doesn’t do the same kind of work—obviously doesn’t have the network Bobby (real Bobby, Dean thinks with the tiniest amount of bitterness) used to have. There’s been an opening. For a while, before the final apocalypse, Sam seemed primed to fill it. Then he didn’t anymore.

“I’m fine being Bobby,” says Sam, crossing his arms. “I _like_ being Bobby.”

Dean feels his jaw set but he can’t do anything about it. “And why don’t I get to be a part of any of this, huh?”

“Don’t hate me for saying it, man.”

“Never gonna hate you,” Dean mutters.

“You just… can’t,” says Sam. His eyes are clear and honest. “It’s not healthy. With the way things are now—” He gestures broadly at Dean’s shoulder, and Dean knows he’s really thinking about the bullet wound, which is basically all healed up now but for a scar. “It’s not safe. For either of us. You just need a break. You’ve been so tired for so long. I see you. If you keep hunting, you’re just gonna wring yourself dry, and there’s not gonna be anything left.”

Silence.

“And I don’t want you in on the network,” Sam continues, “because I know you’re not gonna be content with that. You’re gonna wanna be back in the fray. And I get that, man—I really do. I’m just not gonna let you put yourself in danger. Like, I’m all about you maintaining relationships with other hunters—friends are great! But you also need other friends. Hunters aren’t your people just because they’re hunters. Just like how Dad wasn’t always our people, you know, just because he was blood.”

“We’re not talking about Dad right now.”

“We’re always talking about Dad.” Sam cocks his head, almost like a dare. When Dean says nothing, he presses forward. “You have to get some space. You have to move on.”

“I’ve had space,” says Dean. “I want back in.”

“No you don’t. You just think you do.”

“What do you know about what I want?”

“A hell of a lot more than you do, apparently.”

“You have some fucking nerve,” Dean spits, blood boiling over again suddenly. “I fucking raised you. You remember any of that? I was Mom. I was Dad. I was me. You don’t know half the shit I went through. You don’t know me. I know you.”

“We know each other, Dean.” Sam is still, calm, standing his ground. “Look, I know all of that, and I appreciate it. But you really think I spent, like, every waking moment of the past sixteen years with you and still don’t know you?”

Dean realizes he’s shaking. He doesn’t want to be shaking.

“Well,” he says, the tense cloud of anger in his line of vision finally parting, just slightly, “I guess you’d be a pretty shitty brother.”

Sam laughs at that—a quiet laugh, but a real one. “I would be.”

“I feel—” Dean says, tears stinging at his eyes again. Fuck. So stupid. “I don’t want your money anymore. You’re not supposed to take care of me. I’m supposed to take care of you.”

“You did,” says Sam, and before he knows what’s going on, Sam has him wrapped in a tight hug. “I’m here, aren’t I? You did your job. We’re both middle-aged and alive. Now take a fucking break.”

“I mean it,” says Dean, mostly into Sam’s shoulder. “The money—and when you let me live here—it’s too much. I’m supposed to be the one—”

“Dean,” says Sam, pulling back, stepping away to get a good look at him. “You were catatonic, man. You weren’t there. You needed somebody to take care of you.”

As much as Dean doesn’t want to admit it, Sam is right. Most of the year Cas was gone, Dean was useless. A mess. Sleeping all day, drinking all night. Driving and driving and coming back way too late. Hiding under the sheets, an unceasing, unintelligible litany of _Cas please Cas please Cas please_ looping in his head under his blaring headphones. When he finally moved into the Campbell house, Sam had obviously looked for easy improvement that didn’t come; and when he decided to hunt, Dean is just now starting to understand, Sam only let him go because he thought it was the last resort. _Sam thought I was gonna off myself_ , he realizes. And maybe Sam wasn’t wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says weakly. “I don’t—I just don’t wanna—please tell me I’m not a burden.” It’s a dumb thing to ask but Dean’s exhausted and past caring.

Sam grabs him by the shoulders, looks him squarely in the face.

“You’re not a burden. You’re obtuse and stupid and I worry about you. But you’re not a burden, okay?”

Dean nods. Keeps nodding.

“Okay,” he says, “okay.”

And then Sam pulls him in again and he groans, a half-attempt at feigning displeasure, but he yields to Sam’s arms around him, Sam’s hand patting firmly the area between his shoulder blades.

“We’re only supposed to do this at the end of the world,” Dean says. “C’mon.”

Sam gives him one last good squeeze and says, “I don’t think the world is ending again any time soon. So just let me hug my brother while things are good, okay?”

When they head inside, Eileen is leaned up against the kitchen counter, reading a book while the oven heats up. She looks up, eyebrows raised, glancing up at Sam and landing on Dean.

 _Stay for dinner?_ she signs, and Dean signs back _no thank you._

“Gotta get back home to Cas,” he says, and he practically feels Sam sag in relief beside him. “You crazy kids have a good night though.”

“Yeah, _we’re_ the crazy ones,” she says breezily, then looks back down at her book so Dean doesn’t have a chance to reply. Sam chokes on a laugh that he tries turning into a cough.

Dean takes the long way home, drives a little longer than is strictly necessary, but he needs to get psyched up, he tells himself. If he’s gonna have two real conversations in one night, he’d better be prepared.

He hesitates outside the door. Brings his hand up to knock. Then he remembers that it’s his house and he doesn’t have to knock. He opens the door.

“Hey,” he says, like nothing is wrong. Cas is lying on the couch, facing the door, legs crossed, arms crossed, looking cross.

He scrutinizes Dean for a second. Then he says, “Any interest in telling me what the fuck that was about?”

Right to the point. Okay.

Despite everything, Cas sits up to make room for Dean on the couch. He tucks one leg up underneath himself, looking both anxious and stern.

“Yeah,” Dean says with a short laugh, scratching the back of his neck. He only hesitates a little to sit down next to Cas, and he’s annoyed to notice how much better he feels just being next to Cas: how warm he is even from a couple feet away, how he smells familiar and clean and always a little metallic, even now, in a way that’s hard to comprehend. “I freaked out a little.”

“I noticed,” Cas says coolly, eyes trained on Dean’s face. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says, and despite the hour he just spent unpacking it all with Sam, that’s still basically true. “Why didn’t you just tell me you’d be late?”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” Cas says, tilting his head, just slightly. “Is that what you’re upset about? You want to know where I am all the time?”

“No,” Dean says emphatically, “no, it’s not that. I just.” And then something wells up from a place he doesn’t recognize: “I—I wanted to tell you how my day was and you weren’t here.” _That’s not true_ , he thinks as he says it. But actually, it is. That’s it. Sure, everything else too—fear of Cas getting taken and brutally slaughtered by the monster of the week, fear that Cas would come to his senses and drive away for good now that he has a car of his own. But that’s what it comes down to: Dean wants Cas _here_ , and he wants him here so they can do stupid stuff like tell each other how their days were.

“Oh,” says Cas, his face softening significantly. “You didn’t let me ask.”

“You weren’t here,” Dean says. “That’s kinda how the day works, man, it happens and then you come home and—and you talk about it.”

“No Home Depot?”

“There can be Home Depot,” Dean says, trying very hard to get back around to the point, “but I thought you were gonna be here and you weren’t. And I didn’t know where you were. And I was worried.”

“I was going to ask, Dean,” Cas says, reaching out and brushing Dean’s hair back, and Dean is humiliated at how instinctively he leans into the touch, which until this moment he abruptly realizes he had subconsciously resigned himself to never feeling again. “I want to ask how your day was. Because that’s—” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Because that’s…?”

“Because that’s what normal people do.” Cas looks a little frustrated, a little embarrassed, a little hopeful.

“You want to be normal?” Dean feels his brain finally start to catch up: Cas is trying to be a normal person. Trying to let them be a normal couple. He’s trying really, really hard.

“I want what you want, Dean.” He means it. A thread of sheer terror starts unspooling through Dean, and then dissolves into tenderness.

“Well,” Dean says, selecting his words carefully, “I don’t think we’re gonna get to normal.”

Cas nods. “I’m starting to figure that out,” he says.

“Whatever we’ve got, that’s what I want.” He grabs Cas’s hand, rubs gently at it with his thumb. Sam was right. Sam was so, so right. There’s no way he actually wants out of this. For the first time in maybe his entire life, he feels—well, he doesn’t know quite what to call it. But there’s not a single atom in him that wants to leave or wants Cas to go. Not at all. “Did you ever eat anything?”

“No,” says Cas. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“Are you hungry now?” Dean scoots forward, his knee touching Cas’s. “I didn’t eat either.”

Slowly, Cas nods. “I think I’m hungry now,” he says.

When Dean stands to dig out the takeout menus, Cas grabs the back of his shirt, tugs at it carefully.

“Wait,” he says, looking up at Dean, one corner of his mouth turned up in a nervous smile. “How was your day?”

“Good,” Dean says. He takes Cas’s hands and lifts him to his feet. Smiles as he places his hands on Cas’s hips. “It was good.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BACK AT IT, BABY...... went into a fugue state to study for comps but i passed earlier this week so here i am! i can't promise a posting schedule since the semester has started again but i'm having a great time writing and there's WAY more of this left in my brain so we'll figure it out lmao

The next couple weeks are so good Dean almost forgets to experience any emotional turmoil. He gets hired for real at the garage—on the last day of the test run, Tom says “well, see you next week” and that’s that—and Cas tries to make him cookies to celebrate, overall a miserable failure that Dean is surprised to find unbelievably endearing. They pick a paint sample from the pile on the table (dark blue) and paint the walls after drawing sigils everywhere—angel banishing, concealment, devil’s trap, all more symbolic than functional.

“Just in case,” Dean says, slapping paint haphazardly over the sigils, and Cas looks at him so fondly and intensely, all covered in paint, that Dean’s suddenly afraid he can read his mind—again—and also that he can’t.

Cas picks them out some more new furniture: a couple comfortable chairs that look like they belong in an adult’s house, a slightly nicer dining table with all four chairs, even some art for the walls (admittedly not to Dean’s taste or understanding, but he lets it slide)—he’s been reading Pottery Barn for years, go figure, and it gave him an eye for design. Dean thinks about all the nice furniture he left in the Dean Cave because he couldn’t bear to have any more reminders of the bunker in the house than strictly necessary. The foosball table. Maybe someday he’ll go back for it. Not that there’s room for a foosball table here anyway. One of its major flaws.

Cas also finally gets glasses—just reading glasses, nothing he has to wear all the time, but Dean still teases him relentlessly. Calls him Poindexter, snatches them off his face while he’s trying to read.

“Give those back,” Cas says, face entirely furrowed, reaching out fruitlessly to Dean, who’s holding the glasses just out of reach.

“You love it,” says Dean, and he dangles them just close enough for Cas to grab. Cas rolls his eyes as he slides them back on his face, but Dean sees the spark behind and knows he’s right, which is confirmed later that evening when Cas shoves him up against the wall and says against his neck, “Would you like to try teasing me again? Go ahead. Try.”

So all in all, things are going great and mostly Dean is letting them, which is a pretty new development. And then Cas gets sick.

It’s nothing serious—it starts out with sneezing, which Cas still doesn’t do very often, so Dean finds it kind of endearing. Then Cas starts complaining of a headache and Dean tells him it’s probably allergies, grabs him some Claritin on the way home from work the next day. But the next morning Cas grunts more pitifully than usual when Dean kisses the back of his neck to wake him up.

“C’mon,” Dean says, trailing his fingers over Cas’s bicep, “time for work.”

Instead of answering or rolling over, Cas launches into a coughing fit that has Dean bolting up to a seat in concern, his caretaker impulse immediately and desperately at odds with his fear of germs. His fingers grab Cas’s arm more tightly as he leans over to look at his pale face, half buried in the pillow, looking miserable.

“Maybe not,” Cas rasps, his voice raw—the longer he’s human, the more his voice has seemed to even out to something a little less Batman and a little more Bruce Wayne, but this has him sounding like he hasn’t sounded in years and years.

“Shit, dude,” Dean says, gently rolling Cas onto his back and running a hand over his stomach. “You good?”

“Good is relative,” he says, teeth gritted with the effort of speaking. “I’ve been dead. Better than that. Still bad.”

“Sore throat,” Dean says, “okay, shit, I’ll make you some tea, you like tea, that’ll help.” He starts to edge himself out of the bed, but almost unthinkingly scoots back in to press a soft kiss to Cas’s temple. He can’t help himself. Cas looks so breakable, so distressed.

“Is this allergies?”

“Think you’ve got a cold,” Dean says. “You’ll be back on your feet pretty quick, but it’s gonna suck for a few days.”

Cas has never had a cold. The sickest he’s ever really been is a bad hangover. There’s the angel stuff, of course—when Cas was laid up with grace problems while Dean was off fucking around with Crowley—but that’s different, right? That illness wasn’t combined with the inherent pathetic situation of being a human unaccustomed to regular human happenstance. Nobody can do anything about this.

To be honest, Dean can’t even remember the last time he had a cold. It’s because of the whole deal with Chuck, he guesses. He’s lucky twenty years of backed up minor sickness hasn’t caught up with him since they killed God, despite his newfound tendency towards the accident prone. In the kitchen, he panics for a second. Does he even know how to take care of somebody who’s sick anymore? He did it all the time for Sam when they were kids, but that was so long ago. His hands are making tea while he frets about what he’s supposed to do for Cas; he hardly realizes he’s already doing it. He picks up the honey Cas got from the farmer’s market when Sam insisted on taking them—honey is good for a sore throat, right? He squeezes some in and carries it back to the bedroom. Cas is sitting up a little more than he was when Dean left, his head lolled over, his forehead scrunched and eyes barely open. Dean sits down gingerly on the bed, wordlessly offers Cas the mug. Cas takes it, takes a sip. His whole body seems to relax a little bit, and he leans his head back on the headboard as he turns his eyes towards Dean again.

“Thank you,” he mouths more than says, and he reaches out a hand to caress Dean’s knee.

“Yeah, you’re not goin’ anywhere today,” Dean says, placing a hand on Cas’s forehead. A little warm, but not burning up. Just for a second, he thinks about calling in to the shop and telling them he can’t come in today, but then he realizes that whatever Cas has, he’s probably in the running to get it now too. He shouldn’t waste a day off; he’ll probably need it next week. There’s no way to avoid it now. “Text your people and tell ‘em you’re not coming in. Gonna be okay while I’m at work?”

Cas coughs another gross, hacking cough and Dean thinks he should probably be disgusted, but mostly it just makes him want to serve at Cas’s beck and incredibly hoarse call.

“I’ll be fine, Dean.” He tries clearing his throat, takes another sip from the mug. “But I’ll text you incessantly.”

“You better,” Dean says, smirking in relief, brushing Cas’s hair, just a little too long again, away from his forehead.

* * *

“Sorry I’m late,” Dean says when he shows up two minutes past his usual arrival time, still slightly tense and distracted. “Cas is sick.”

Tom looks up at him from behind the desk. “No skin off my back,” he says, and Dean sees him doing some calculations behind his eyes. _Shit_ , he realizes, _I said Cas_. It’s not like he’s intentionally trying to hide Cas, per se, not really. But he’s entitled to his privacy. These people don’t need to know anything about his him besides how good he is with cars. “I hope Cas gets to feeling better soon.”

Dean hadn’t said Cas’s name in the garage so far and he hadn’t really planned to—hadn’t used pronouns, said _boyfriend_ or _roommate_ or _most beloved companion_ or fuck, whatever, anything at all. Now they’re staring at each other for a beat too long and Dean wishes Tom had just said _she_ instead of _Cas_ so Dean could either correct him or not correct him at all. He nods, ducks his head, slides into the garage.

He thinks about Cas all morning; it’s a slow day and he checks his phone surreptitiously as often as possible, his heart panging every time he sees a text roll in from Cas, who’s livetexting him thoughts on _The Good Place_ in a manner somehow both cheerful and deadpan in the way only Cas can muster.

_Fascinating afterlife concept. Maybe we should have given this a try in Heaven._ Then: _I’ll recommend it to Jack._

_Show or afterlife concept?_ Dean texts back, and Cas replies immediately.

_Both._ Winky face.

_Got Netflix in Heaven now?_

_Would hardly be Heaven without it._

“Earth to Dean,” says a voice in front of him, and Dean startles hard, stuffs his phone back in his pocket. “Havin’ fun?” It’s Jake, eyes sparkling. Dean’s heart pounds for fear of being seen, but really he likes Jake—a gruff, rough motherfucker with surprising charisma. If you put Jake and Tom together, they’d probably make a pretty solid Bobby. The other two kids in the garage remind him of Kevin and Adam, respectively. He’s lost so many people that he rarely meets someone who doesn’t remind him of somebody.

“Uh,” Dean says. _Don’t say Cas_ , he thinks, _nothing about Cas._ “Just, uh, talking about my kid. You know.”

“A kid,” Jake says, swaggering back over to the nearest car and popping the hood. “Well, it’s nice to finally learn something about you. How old?”

“Grown,” Dean grunts, his brain in an almost complete state of bluescreen. This is almost worse than the Cas conversation. One thought pushes to the front of his brain: _Jack, buddy, if you can hear me, please get me out of this conversation._

“Where’s he live?” Jake says casually from elbow deep in the car’s innards. “Or she. Guess you didn’t say. You just look like a man with a son, I reckon.”

“No, you’re right,” says Dean, scratching at the back of his neck. “He. Got a girl too though.” He kicks himself for offering extra information, but he’s well-versed in revealing more to reveal less, and at least it’s not totally true. Claire is his and not his. So is Jack. Maybe this is his out—they can talk about Claire. It’s easier to talk about Claire.

“Two of ‘em. Well.” Jake straightens up, wipes his hands on the front of his coveralls. “Still didn’t answer my question. Where’s he live?”

“Uh,” Dean says, the barest hint of panic edging into his voice. “New York?” Jesus Christ.

“Big Apple, huh? Cities can get mighty lonely. He ever get lonely up there?”

“I imagine he does.” Everything he says is worse than the last thing. He thinks, _fucking get it together, Winchester_ , _what is wrong with you?_

Jake raises an eyebrow. “You imagine? You not on good terms?”

Dean takes in a big breath. _You can lie,_ he reminds himself. _You can just fucking lie._

“Oh, no, it’s not like that,” he says. “We’re good. He’s just—he’s so busy. And everything. With the job. Big important job. Fuckin’… uh… you know. Crazy hours. He hardly sleeps.”

Technically true. Mostly. Maybe he can’t lie anymore. Good to know.

“What, you got an investment banker for a kid or something? Shit. He send money home?”

Dean clears his throat, looks around. “He does what he can.”

“And the girl?”

“Kind of a drifter.” He thinks about what Cas said last time Claire visited. _Still your daughter, after everything_. “Takes after me, unfortunately.”

“One of each,” Jake says sagely, looking down his glasses at Dean. “It’ll happen.”

“Guess so.”

There’s a long pause, only a little awkward, where Jake goes back to fiddling with the engine. Then he says, “I know it can be hard not to see ‘em very often.”

“Nah,” Dean says, “it’s all good with me. I don’t need any more than I get.”

So he can still lie after all.

* * *

When he gets home, he doesn’t hear Netflix emanating from anywhere, and Cas hasn’t texted him in a couple hours. He’s probably asleep. Good—he needs the rest. Dean takes off his boots and tiptoes around in the kitchen, making some more tea so Cas can have it when he wakes up. He carries it into the bedroom, quiet, and sees Cas curled up, his back facing the door. Dean takes a second just to look, leaning in the doorway. As frequently as he sees it now, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it: Cas asleep. Cas asleep in their bed. And then he hears a sniff.

“Cas?” he says, edging into the room mug-first. “You awake?”

“Dean.” Cas doesn’t roll over. His voice sounds fucking rough, way worse than this morning. He takes a shuddering, labored breath that sends a chill down Dean’s spine. It seems like maybe he’s going to say something else, but he just devolves into another hacking fit.

Dean rushes forward to kneel on the bed next to Cas, setting the mug on the bedside table. He nudges Cas lightly, urging him to turn over, and Cas goes without a fuss. When he sees Cas’s face, Dean winces—it’s not just how sick he looks. It looks like he’s been crying, his eyes all red and puffy, his hair a little wet at the temples.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Dean says softly, bringing a hand up to Cas’s cheek. Cas tries to turn away but ends up nuzzling miserably into Dean’s palm. “What’s wrong?”

“I’d think it’s obvious,” Cas mutters with a tinge of bitchiness that Dean is too confused by to be properly irritated or entertained.

“No, I know.” Dean puts a hand to Cas’s forehead again—is he warmer than this morning? Dean can’t tell. They need to get a thermometer. “I just—I’ve seen you cry maybe three times ever. Mostly life-threatening circumstances. So what gives?” He strokes his hand up from Cas’s forehead into his hair, scratches gently. “Talk to me.”

Cas looks up at him, eyes wide like a terrified cat, Dean’s fingers still scratching absently at his scalp. “I’m—I’m under a lot of stress.”

Dean can’t help but huff out a laugh at that, and he feels bad, but come on. Stressed? This is the least stressful shit has ever been.

“That all? You’re stressed? I can give you a massage. Get you some lavender oils.”

“I’m serious, Dean.” Cas reaches up to pull Dean’s hand down to his chest. He holds it there. Right over his thrumming heart. “This is a lot for me to take in.”

“Like, being sick?” Dean says, concern mounting in the back of his head. “What are you talking about?”

“Everything,” Cas says. He stares up at the ceiling. “All of it. The illness. I’m pathetic. I can’t do anything about—and I have to cut the tags out of my shirts. As an angel I barely even noticed I was wearing a shirt. It was inconsequential to me. Now I have to cut the tags out because they make my skin feel weird. And—and sometimes I can feel my eyelashes, like, all of them, and it doesn’t feel good, Dean, it feels pretty bad.”

“Uh huh,” Dean says, holding on for dear life in order to follow.

“And I sweat, Dean, I sweat now, I was sweaty all summer, and sometimes even when it’s cold I’m still sweaty, I don’t understand that, and yet you still willingly have sex with me?”

It’s really going off the rails now. Dean can see about six thousand other thoughts swirling around behind Cas’s eyes.

All he can think to say is, “I… I sweat too.”

Cas huffs out a humorless laugh at the end of a cough.

“Yes, but it’s attractive when you do it.”

“Is this about sex now?” Cas lets go of Dean’s hand with a sigh, and Dean uses the opportunity to grab the tea from his bedside table and hand it to Cas. Cas takes a sip, stares down into the mug.

“No,” Cas says. “It’s about me.”

Dean looks around, realizes there are no other glasses in the room, no dishes, nothing. Normally he’d be grateful for the cleanliness, but—

“Cas,” he says, “did you eat lunch?”

“No.”

“Have you had anything to drink all day?”

“I had the tea you brought me this morning.”

“Cas.” He starts to say a word beginning with _b_ , but his mouth can’t decide if it should be _buddy_ or _baby_ , so he bails. “You’ve gotta at least drink water when you’re sick. No wonder you feel so shitty.”

“I thought I felt _shitty_ because I’m ill.”

“Well, yeah. But if you eat you’ll feel better.”

“To eat I would have to get up. Which I don’t want to do. Because I feel shitty. Hence no eating.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean’s at a loss. “You have to take care of yourself.”

With a soft _thwump_ , Cas flops over so he’s facing Dean entirely.

“That’s what I’m trying to say, Dean. I don’t know how. I mean, I—I’m an adult. I’ve lived eons. I’ve learned how to brush my teeth. I fought wars and raised a son. But there are things I simply haven’t had an opportunity to figure out. Much of the time I feel helpless and stupid, and it—well, to borrow a phrase from you, it fucking blows.”

Dean scoots down to face Cas. Smiles just a little. “You’ve got a sore throat. You don’t need to be talking this much.”

“I have things to say,” Cas says, resolute, cringing slightly when his voice breaks.

“Okay. Like what?”

“I—” says Cas, and Dean can see it in his eyes: years’ worth of forced composure and dignity, crumbling. “I don’t like being sick,” he says—wet, gruff, pathetic. “I hate being sick.”

“I know,” Dean says quietly. ”Fuckin’ sucks. I’m sorry.” He brings his hand up to rub his thumb over Cas’s temple. “I’m gonna go make you something to eat. Any requests?”

Cas grumbles for a second, refusing to look Dean in the eyes. Then he mumbles, “PB&J?”

“Comin’ right up.”

Dean leans in for a kiss, but Cas tries to squirm away.

“I don’t want to get you sick, Dean.”

“Hey,” says Dean, raising his eyebrows. “If I’m gonna get it, I’ve already got it.” He leans back in and this time Cas lets him brush a kiss over his cheek, the corner of his mouth. When he pulls back, Cas looks at him with a mixture of tenderness and consternation, then rolls onto his back again.

He leaves and returns a few minutes later with a sandwich and a glass of water, then sits and watches as Cas takes small bites, chews almost unbearably slowly. It’s weird that he could actually watch this forever.

“How’s it going?” he asks, barely hiding his amusement.

“Strange,” Cas says. “I can’t really taste it.”

“Back to molecules?”

“No. Not molecules. Just…” He takes another bite—chews, considers, swallows. “Bland.”

“Sometimes you can’t taste stuff when you’re sick,” Dean offers. “Because of the inflammation.”

“The inflammation,” Cas says. “I see.” He clears his throat, then clears it again, louder. His shoulders droop.

“I’m sorry you feel bad,” Dean says again. He doesn’t really know what else to say.

“It isn’t your fault.” Cas puts the sandwich down directly onto the bed instead of onto the plate, barely noticing when Dean reaches over, confounded, to put it where it belongs. “Just comes with the territory. I chose this.”

It’s always unsettling, those reminders that Cas did indeed choose this—that he used to be an angel, and now he’s not. That he was dead, and now he’s not. That he was in the Empty, then up in Heaven with Jack, and now he’s not. Now he’s just a guy with a slightly larger learning curve than most. The best and weirdest man Dean has ever known, who possibly still has minor residual angel powers—like being a tiny bit psychic and always being able to guess what the next line will be in movies he’s never seen—but still.

“I’m sorry if I’m not handling it with very much grace.” Cas picks the sandwich back up, takes a bite. Says through a mouthful, “So to speak.”

“Hey. No worries.” Dean pats him on the knee. “For your first real cold, I think you’re doing great, all things considered. You got a lot goin’ on.”

“I do,” Cas says thoughtfully. “Between adjusting to humanity, and my job, and you, and Jack—” Cas stops short, biting off the rest of the sentence like he doesn’t want to continue.

“Jack?” Dean shifts. “What’s up with Jack?”

Cas is quiet for what feels like a long time. “I’m worried about him,” he says finally.

“Cosmic problem worried or afraid-my-kid’s-not-adjusting-at-college worried?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe both. I’m just… I’m not sure he’s happy as God.” It sounds like something Cas is afraid to admit, maybe even embarrassed.

“Last time we talked you said he was a great fit,” Dean says, careful. If he’s not thriving up there—well, Dean really, really doesn’t want to have to do the God-coup thing again. Especially not to Jack.

“He is,” Cas says hurriedly. “He’s doing a great job. But I’m not sure it’s what he wants.”

Okay, Dean thinks. Okay. So Jack, in his theoretically infinite power and wisdom, is just… tired of being God. Barely two years in. Even Chuck never got _tired_ of being God.

“I mean… He’s God,” Dean says helplessly. “He can do whatever he wants, right?”

“Even not be God?”

“Got me there.” Dean shrugs. “Did he say something? When you were up there?”

“Not… not really,” Cas says. Dean gets the sense that he’s still not saying everything he wants to say. “I could just tell.”

“Okay,” says Dean, prompting. When Cas stays quiet, he says, “So… what, then?”

“I don’t know,” Cas sighs. “I wish he would return my prayers.”

“Yeah,” says Dean. “Kids’ll go off to college and stop answering your calls.”

Cas regards him strangely, a little irritably. “You know Heaven isn’t college, Dean.”

“Seeing as I’ve been to Heaven and not to college, yeah, I know they’re different.” He laughs at his own joke, taking a little extra pleasure when Cas rolls his eyes. “Look, I’m just saying, it seems like the closest normal-person comparison we’ve got. It’s hard to know if I should think about him like a little kid or a teenager.”

“He’s both. He’s neither. He is, as it were, the Eternal and the Light, I suppose.” Cas sighs again, turning his eyes towards Dean in that deeply earnest, tired way that always makes Dean fidgety. “He’s just Jack, Dean. Even now. Think of him as Jack.”

Most of the time, simmering under the surface, especially when he tries not to think about it, two of Dean’s most fervent wishes grapple inside him: The first is that he hopes he never has to see Jack again, because he knows that what he’s done is unforgiveable, and he doesn’t want to face the kid after screwing him up so badly. The second is that he wants Jack back—he wants him here, in Lawrence, where he belongs. He wants to tell Jack he’s sorry.

“Cas, I know I keep saying this,” Dean says through his teeth, eye screwed tight, “but seriously, if you wanted to be up there with him—if I hadn’t asked you to come back, y’know, you wouldn’t be laid up with a cold right now—"

“Dean.” Cas says it seriously, tenderly, turning his full body towards Dean. “I keep saying this too. I wanted to come back; I did it on purpose. Jack and I discussed it, at length—we both thought it was the best possible solution.”

“And so, what, he’s just up there, trapped in a job he hates?”

“He’d be God whether I was with him or not.”

“Can’t he just… retire early? Pass it on to somebody else?”

“I don’t think it works like that.” Cas chews his lip, deep in thought. Another new habit. Seems like every day he gets more and more human in tiny ways. Dean doesn’t know where he picks half of it up. “I don’t know. The whole situation is so… comprehensively new.”

Dean just nods. Nothing he can really add.

“There’s,” Cas starts, and instead of finishing the sentence he sneezes in a way that looks almost comically painful. Dean reaches out for his knee, pets it while Cas blows his nose. This is it, baby. Domestic fantasy. “There’s something else,” Cas says, more stuffed up than ever, his nose red and raw, looking totally pitiful, but his eyes are steely.

Dean nods again, an invitation to continue, though he’s not sure he wants to hear it. He wants to let Cas speak for once. There are just a lot of things Cas could say that he might not want to hear.

“The deal you made with the Empty,” Cas says. “You understand the implications.”

“Yes,” Dean says, feigning indignance, more certain than ever that he doesn’t actually get it. It seemed simple at the time, like the best possible plan: empty out the Empty, get Cas dumped back into Heaven—angels back to Heaven, demons back to Hell, monsters back to Purgatory. All gates shut, allegedly. Chuck is dead; Jack’s in charge. Nobody but Chuck ever goes to the Empty again. Sounded ideal.

“So you know the angels are all back in Heaven,” Cas says.

“Yeah,” Dean says. And then he says, “Wait. Fuck.”

“Yes,” Cas says.

Okay, so Dean hadn’t thought hard enough about the implications.

“So—wait.” He’s trying to wrap his head around it. “You were just up there but also all the other angels were up there? Like, all the angels you murdered and stuff.”

“Indeed,” says Cas, “the angels I murdered and stuff.”

“Are you—” Dean is about to ask if Cas is okay, but that seems like a stupid question, all things considered. He shuts his mouth. “Did they try anything?”

“Well.” Cas shifts under the sheets, bringing them up to cover his shoulders. “Most of them aren’t too happy. But with Jack’s structural changes and the Empty’s machinations, most of them aren’t angels either. So there’s not a lot they could do to me, besides file some vitriolic and well-earned complaints.”

“Not angels? What does that mean?”

“Heaven has been effectively democratized,” Cas says. “I think I mentioned that Jack has done away with individual Heavens. It’s really more of just a… just a place now. And most of the former angels are just people. Kind of. It’s a little hard to explain.”

“So, what,” Dean says, “Jack’s not taking advantage of the built-in heavenly host of freshly reanimated employees?”

“Downsizing,” Cas says gravely. “You know, Chuck was gone for so long that for most of my existence, angels were responsible for the entirety of Heaven’s management and maintenance. Now that Jack is in charge, he handles most of it himself.”

“Damn,” says Dean. “Must keep him busy.”

“It does,” Cas says. He licks his lips, then makes a face.

“Chapstick,” Dean says, and Cas rolls his eyes, but he reaches into the drawer of his bedside table and pulls out a tube of lip balm, the same one Dean bought him over the summer. Dean wishes he’d use it more often. He likes kissing Cas—a lot—but the man has lips drier than a joke from a British comedian. When Cas is done applying it, Dean points to the water glass. Cas raises his eyebrows. Dean raises his. Cas takes a vexed sip.

Dean has questions, but he’s not even sure really what they are. He settles on: “Do they—you know. Do they like him?”

“Good question,” says Cas, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. This is why the lip balm is useless. “Hard to say. Many major players are reasonably upset about the installment of the biological son of Lucifer—"

“I mean, he was probably next in line for the throne anyway,” Dean says, shrugging.

“—not to mention the assassination of the original God. Almighty Creator. Their Father.” Cas grimaces. “Et cetera.”

Dean shrugs again, bigger this time.

“And then there are the regular devout and faithful of Heaven, who are frankly just confused by the whole thing. Millennia of humans who didn’t even realize God wasn’t present until Jack showed up to introduce himself as the new God.”

“He… introduced himself?”

“Yes,” says Cas, looking equal parts exasperated and fond. “He went to every individual Heaven to explain the planned changes before they were implemented.”

“He went on a victory lap,” Dean says, incredulous.

Cas thinks for a second. “More like a campaign trail for office he’d already won.”

“Guess that White House blood runs strong,” says Dean, blowing out a loud breath. Rooney is also kind of Jack’s dad, right? He never quite figured that one out. “But—” He pauses, still turning things over in his mind. “So you didn’t have to see all the folks you—you know.” He draws his finger across his neck, clicking his tongue. Cas flinches. “I mean, Sam and I helped with some of that,” Dean says quickly. “Wasn’t just you.”

“Think of it this way,” Cas says. “I was at the front desk, answering calls.”

“Jack had you on secretary duty?”

“I had myself on secretary duty,” Cas says tersely. “I thought it was only right that I be the one fielding complaints. Many of which were about me.”

“Cas,” Dean says, and what he really wants to say is _why do you want to punish yourself so bad?,_ but he knows the answer to that question, and he doesn’t want to give Cas the opportunity to turn it back on him. Instead, he leans in a little closer, pets the back of Cas’s head.

“Zachariah had some choice words,” he says. “Raphael. Ishim.” He stares down at the bed, dejected. “Rachel. Uriel.”

“Hey,” Dean says, placing a hand on either side of Cas’s face. “Look at me.” When Cas finally locks eyes with him, he says, “So you did some fucked up stuff. We all have. You don’t have to keep beating yourself up about it. You don’t have to let them beat you up about it either.”

“I—” Cas starts. He looks away, shakes his head slightly.

Dean rubs a thumb gently over Cas’s jaw, barely conscious that he’s doing it. “Couldn’t Jack, like… Put ‘em somewhere?”

“He’s not interested in that. Like I said: democratized.”

“That doesn’t mean evil motherfuckers in Heaven on a technicality should get to put shit in the suggestion box,” Dean says. “Especially when the suggestion box is you. What, y’all aren’t worried about a coup?”

“They’re powerless,” Cas says, bringing up a hand to trace his fingers along Dean’s wrist. He finally looks back up. “I suppose there’s strength in numbers, if they really wanted to revolt, but there’s really not much they can do. Besides, I think mostly they’ve lost their appetites for power and violence.” Cas huffs out a humorless laugh. “I know I have. Time in the Empty will do that to you.”

Dean drops his hands slowly from Cas’s face. “Talk to anybody you like?” he asks after a long silence. A history of Cas’s friends—friends? siblings? exes? gross—flashes through his brain: Balthazar. Hannah. Anna. Angels Cas might like to see. Maybe.

“Not really,” Cas says quietly. “I didn’t feel right about reaching out.”

“Oh,” says Dean.

“Well—Gabriel.” Cas allows himself one little closed-mouth smile. “Jack wanted to get to know him, so we spent some time with him.”

“Good old Gabe,” Dean says. “Bet he’s missing Earth right about now.”

“You have no idea,” Cas says, still smiling, and okay, at least that’s something. “He had so much to say on the topic of pornography.”

For a second, Dean thinks about asking if there’s porn in Heaven now. Then he realizes that Jack would have had to put it there, if it is, so he doesn’t want to know.

“So Jack’s not totally alone,” Dean says, testing the waters. “He’s got Uncle Gabe.”

“And Naomi,” Cas says, nodding.

“What?” Naomi? “Naomi?” What?

“I know,” Cas says, shrugging like it’s normal, like _what are you gonna do?_ “But over the past few years she’s been almost the sole machinery of Heaven—she knows it better than anyone. Jack’s lucky to have her, if I’m honest.” He looks up at the ceiling for a moment. “And she hasn’t tried to kill or brainwash me in a few years, so.”

“Not to be rude,” Dean says, “but this is all pretty fucked up.”

Cas just nods, his lips pressed together in a straight line.

“So let me get this straight,” Dean attempts again. “You left Heaven because it was like a high school reunion if you killed everybody at your high school, and now Jack’s up there, maybe not liking his lot in eternal life so much, hanging out with Gabe and the lady who made you try to kill me. Anything else?”

“I may have also misrepresented how hands-off Jack is being.” Cas immediately looks like he regrets having said it, and Dean feels his lungs constrict.

“What, like—” He swallows hard. Not this again. Not this, not this. For once he’s in control of his life, or at least he thought he was. “Is he—” He realizes belatedly that he’s pointing at himself.

“No, Dean, no,” Cas says in a rush, grabbing for Dean’s hand. “Nothing to do with you. He’s just—he’s trying to make things better.”

“Better how?”

Cas takes in a deep breath that makes all Dean’s organs freeze in place. But then he bites back a smile and says, “Climate change, for starters, though he’s having a hard time with it. It’s like the game with the sticks. You know. You remove one and everything comes toppling down.”

“What, Jenga?” Dean says, finally feeling his heart rate start to decrease. He squeezes Cas’s hand. “How is climate change like Jenga?”

“Contemporary society is like Jenga,” Cas clarifies, “and climate change is one of the sticks. If he zaps away all the ill effects of climate change today but consumption continues at its current rate, any improvements will be lost within the decade. If he eradicates certain corporations or luxuries, modern society comes to a halt, and people get testy. Delicate balance.”

“Shit,” says Dean. This is all above his paygrade. But at least Jack’s letting him live his own life. Theoretically. “Good on him for trying. If he figures it out, though, don’t tell Sam.”

“I think Sam would be delighted,” Cas says, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head just a little. Dean feels a little weak in the knees, as always, even though he’s sitting.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving his free hand vaguely, “but it’s his whole thing now. Gives him something normal to worry about. If he can’t eat vegetables to feel morally superior, what’s the point, you know?”

“I don’t think that’s—” Cas says, but he stops, shakes his head. “Okay.”

Dean exhales loudly and leans back against the headboard while Cas blows his nose again. Then they lie there, shoulder to shoulder, quiet but for Cas’s somewhat labored breathing.

“You haven’t talked about any of this, man,” Dean says finally. “This is a lot to carry by yourself.”

“Much of my processing I’m able to do internally,” Cas says plainly. Dean is about to question that notion when he adds, “I’ve also talked to Sam a bit about Jack. Not everything. Just the basic concerns about his well-being.”

First, Dean almost says _not me?_ but fucking duh. Of course Cas would go to Sam. It’s not like Dean and Jack parted on the best of terms. Besides, Sam has always related better to Jack: Freaky superpowered teen stuff. Lucifer stuff too. And he’s always gotten to be the fun one, Dean thinks, only slightly bitterly, all pencil tricks and ice cream and Star Wars.

Then he realizes he has no idea when Cas talked to Sam about any of this. He really needs to pay more attention.

“You—” he says. “Sam? When?”

Cas eyes him with a look that’s wary for a split second, then transforms into something more playful.

“I have a life, Dean,” he says.

“Yeah.” Dean scoffs. “Well. Me too.” He tries to think of something clever to say but nothing comes up, so he just says, “Still crazy that you’re down here fretting about the well-being of God.”

Cas hums a little indignant noise. “Well, God is my son, and I love him very much,” he says. “I think I’m entitled to some reasonable concern.”

“Our son,” Dean says, turning his head to nuzzle into Cas’s hair. Cas turns his head too, his eyes big, looking warmly at Dean from centimeters away.

“Our son,” he confirms, almost in a whisper, then presses a quick kiss to Dean’s mouth. “Thank you, Dean.”

“What’re you thanking me for?” Dean says, pulling away, and he feels his face starting to heat up.

“You’re trying,” Cas says, so softly, and that’s all there is to it. He’s right. Dean is trying. It feels weird to admit and even weirder to have it acknowledged out loud. It’s not like he wasn’t trying before—he’s been trying so hard his whole life, trying so, so hard. He’s just trying different things now.

“Yeah,” he grumbles, scratching at the back of his head. “You good? Need anything?”

“Hmm,” Cas says, flopping over and throwing an arm over Dean. “I could stand a movie in bed. Something that requires no brainpower, please.”

Dean laughs, presses another kiss to the top of Cas’s head.

“Okay,” he says, “but you gotta let me go so I can go grab some dinner too.”

There’s a lot, he thinks, climbing into bed with a sandwich and a beer and his laptop, clicking play on _The Lost Boys_ for maybe the four hundredth time in his life and at least the fifth time in Cas’s, left to talk about. He looks down at Cas, curled up warm and sleepy against him, coughing sort of tragically every few minutes, and Dean’s in love, more than ever, and he realizes for the first time that he will never, never know everything about Cas. It’s impossible. And that’s okay, maybe, mostly. But they can try. They can keep trying. They’ll figure it out.

“Sorry I’m useless,” Cas mumbles into his chest, still hoarse and raw, half-asleep, halfway through the movie, and it’s hardly 8 PM.

Dean knows where it’s coming from, but it still feels like a punch in the gut.

“I can think of at least three uses for you right now, if you were up for it,” he says without thinking, then he realizes maybe he shouldn’t be fucking around, so he tightens his arm around Cas’s shoulders and says, “Look. You’re not useless. And it wouldn’t matter if you were, okay? You’re you.”

“I’m me,” Cas confirms airily. “Just more wretched.”

Dean rolls his eyes and tilts Cas’s chin up to look him in the face. “I’ve told you before,” he says firmly. “I still like you without the bells and whistles. Hell, I like you better. I love you.” He takes a breath through his nose; it’s still hard to get up the courage to say sometimes. “All you gotta do is be Cas and you’re good.”

Cas hums, then burrows his head back into Dean’s chest.

“I love you,” he says, almost unintelligible. “Okay. I’m Cas. So I’m good.”

“You’re Cas,” Dean repeats, rubbing a hand in slow circles on Cas’s back. “You’re good.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends......... just vibing honestly. was planning to get to some stuff in this chapter and instead i did not but i had a great time so here we are

Then Sam and Eileen are engaged and suddenly it feels like everything is happening at once.

Sam mentions it over dinner in passing, like it’s no big deal, and then he says, “I mean, it’s not really a big deal.”

“What?” says Dean through a mouthful of food. He swallows. “Sorry. Run that by me again. You what?”

“We’re getting married,” says Eileen, her eyes twinkling but her tone nonchalant, and she shrugs.

“Oh, congratulations,” Cas says, “what wonderful news,” and he’s standing to embrace Eileen, then Sam, and Dean is about thirty-seven steps behind.

“You—married?” he says. “You? You two?”

“We just figured, you know, it feels like the right next step,” Sam says. He’s eyeing Dean with an expression that Dean can’t name, which is funny, because Dean also can’t name any of the sixty emotions currently hurtling through his own nervous system.

Just like Sam said, this seems right somehow, a foregone conclusion, but for some reason one that hadn’t ever occurred to Dean. Sam always seemed more likely to settle down, sure, but he said it himself a hundred times: Not marriage. Then again, it’s Eileen, and she’s already family. Then again, that’s just it: She’s already family. Why do they need anything more than that? Then _again_ , he’s constantly trying to ignore that ache in his chest when he looks at Cas, the ache of _more more more_ that makes him feel selfish for not appreciating what he already has. He doesn’t even know what else he wants. It’s not like he isn’t already happy. But no matter how close he is to Cas, something in him always calls for _closer._ Is that how Sam feels about Eileen?

“We decided it’s worth it,” Eileen says, grabbing Sam’s hand and stroking her thumb across the back of it. He smiles back at her. They look so normal, picturesque: Eileen, in her red sweater, her hair pinned back; Sam, still in the process of greying out, wearing a flannel like always, but like, it’s clean, with no holes.

And then whatever other fucked up shit is going on inside Dean is overtaken by a wave of pride so severe it almost knocks him over as he stands and says, “Come here, man,” hauling Sam up into a massive hug. When he’s done squeezing Sam for all he’s worth, he snatches Eileen up too, but she seems prepared and almost beats him to the swaying embrace. “Fuckin’—congrats, you two.”

“Will there be a ring?” Cas says, looking down at Eileen’s left hand curiously when everyone gets settled back into their seats.

“Not until the wedding,” Eileen says, flexing her fingers. “Two rings is a lot.”

“How’d Sammy propose then? A knife?” Dean smirks, and then realizes how plausible it is, so he stops smirking and pretends it was a real question the whole time.

“There wasn’t really a proposal,” Sam says, shrugging. “Like Eileen said. We just decided.”

“I guess it makes sense for you two to buck tradition,” Cas says warmly.

Meanwhile Dean is still experiencing multiple streams of an indefinable crisis. He’s happy for Sam. He loves Eileen. None of that is the problem. So what is the problem?

“I’ll be the best best man this side of the Mississippi,” he says, hoping nobody notices the edge of panic in his voice. “Not sure what kind of bachelor party you’re supposed to throw for a nerd, though.”

Sam and Eileen exchange a glance.

“Well,” says Eileen carefully, “this may not be the kind of wedding that has a best man.”

“What?”

Sam clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. So, part of our thinking was, like—we want to be able to celebrate with family, definitely, but the wedding part we thought would maybe just be for us.”

“Like—” Dean’s head is spinning. “What, you’re gonna elope?”

“A little,” Eileen says. “We were thinking about going to Ireland.”

“I’m not going to Ireland,” Dean says blankly. “I don’t fly.”

“I know,” says Sam.

For a moment, Dean stares at Sam and Sam stares back.

“Oh,” Dean says finally, disappointment roiling in his gut. “So you don’t want us there? You don’t want me there.”

“Dean,” Cas says softly, reaching for his hand.

Cas’s warm skin on his unravels almost everything he can think of to say. His heart is still pounding, but suddenly he loses the impulse to shout, to berate, to blame. He’s just tired, mostly.

“It’s—it’s okay.” Dean sees tension leave Sam’s eyes that he didn’t even realize was there. The last vestiges of anger rolling around inside him are replaced with guilt. “This is why we waited to tell you. I knew you might take it as—” Sam pauses. Sighs. “Dean, you know I’m not trying to abandon you, right? This doesn’t have anything to do with you. It’s not like anybody else is gonna be there, and we’re coming straight back to Lawrence after.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, trying to mean it. “Yeah, okay.”

“I mean, we’re not coming _right_ back,” Eileen adds. “We’re going to have our honeymoon.”

“Right,” says Sam. “Yes. So a couple of weeks. But we’ll be back.”

“I just—” Dean says. He doesn’t even really know what he wants to say. “I really—” Cas’s thumb is still stroking his hand, back and forth, back and forth. “I don’t get why you don’t want me there.”

“It has nothing to do with you, Dean,” Sam repeats. “Seriously. We just wanna do something for just us.”

Dean doesn’t get it, not really—doesn’t get why he doesn’t get to be the best man, walk somebody down the aisle, stand at his brother’s side when he’s marrying the love of his life—but for maybe the first time in his life, he thinks: What’s the point of arguing about this? So he doesn’t. And maybe, possibly, part of him is even relieved. A wedding is—well, it’s a wedding.

“I think I’m gonna do the dishes,” Eileen says, hurriedly collecting dishes from the table. “Cas, would you mind…”

“Not at all.”

Once Cas and Eileen have disappeared into the kitchen, Sam nods thoughtfully, mostly to himself.

“Thank you for understanding,” he says, as if Dean had reacted like a normal person. But pretending this way gives them both an out.

“No problem,” Dean says. “I—you know I want you to be happy, man.”

“I am. And I will be. And you’ll be there for it.”

“Yeah,” Dean says again.

As there usually is in conversations like this with Sam, there’s a long, awkward silence. The only sound is the sink running in the kitchen. Cas can probably hear them.

“While we’re sharing, uh, difficult news—” Sam says abruptly, and then he stops, swallows hard. Oh boy. “I think I’m gonna take Eileen’s last name.”

Yeah. Oh boy.

“No,” Dean hears himself say, and he didn’t really mean to say it, but there it is.

Sam blinks fast for a few seconds, then sets his jaw. “Yes.”

“That’s—I mean—” Dean scoffs. First the engagement, then the disinvitation, now this. It’s too much all at once. “You trying to kill me? Somebody dare you to set some kinda fuckin’ world record, man? You’re not serious about this.”

“Look, you know I—” Sam covers the lower half of his face with his hands and sighs into them. “It’s complicated with Dad, okay? It’s always been complicated. For both of us. But mostly this just practical. I mean, _Sam Winchester_ has been legally dead for over a decade. Like, several times over. And he’s on a shit ton of Most Wanted lists. Sam Leahy could just be… I don’t know. Some guy.”

“You’re not just some guy,” Dean protests. “You _are_ Sam Winchester.”

“I’ve changed a lot over the years, Dean. So have you.”

“Yeah, but—” Dean can feel himself sputtering. “But I’m still me. You’re still you. I don’t—”

“Exactly,” Sam says firmly. “I’m still me. My name doesn’t change that. How many names have we used over the years?”

“But those were fake.”

“A rose by any other name,” Sam offers, and then reels it back in when Dean sneers at him. Not the time to break out the Shakespeare. “I’m just saying. If you want you can think of it like Cas’s name: Purely legal, purely logistical. Just getting the government off our ass. Hell, I don’t even know if it counts as _me_ getting married, given the crazy amount of illegal paperwork kind of bolstering my existence.”

That does make Dean feel a little better—just a little. The bad feelings stir back up almost immediately.

“We’re the Winchesters,” he says, intending to sound resolute, but it comes out weaker than he wants. “And you’re—I mean, you’re, you know.”

“A guy?”

Dean grunts. Now that he’s gay, or whatever, he thinks he’s probably supposed to understand this stuff better, but he doesn’t. It’s not like he has a problem with it, per se. But it’s Sam, and Sam is a Winchester, and that’s all there is to it.

Sam rolls his eyes. “We can have this talk if you want to, Dean, but I don’t think you really want to.”

“I can have a talk,” Dean mutters. And then Sam is saying something about outdated modes and property and patriarchy and gender and Dean is saying, “Okay, I get it, I get it,” just to get Sam off his back. Somehow that lightens the mood enough for both of them to relax, and Dean leans forward onto the table, putting his chin in his hand.

“Why do you want everything to change?” he says.

Sam smiles. His eyes are a little bit sad.

“Change is good,” Sam says. “If nothing ever changed, we wouldn’t be here right now.” When Dean doesn’t reply, he keeps going. “Look. I get that it’s hard. And I’ll always be a Winchester in my bones, man. I’m not trying to get rid of you, or distance myself from you. But our family is super fucked up, and sometimes being a Winchester feels more work than it’s worth, and what makes the most sense to me is—I don’t know. It’s like Bobby always said. Family don’t end in blood, you know? I think I need to open myself up to figuring out a new way to define family for myself. And right now that’s you and Eileen and Cas, and even Jack, and no matter what my last name is, that doesn’t change.”

Under the weight of a brain that’s somehow entirely full with thoughts and also entirely empty, Dean deflates. Something about it feels weird—not bad, just weird. Letting Sam do this. But he’s not really _letting_ Sam do anything, is he? He doesn’t have to decide what’s good for Sam anymore. That’s Eileen’s job now. And, okay, sure, maybe Sam’s. Maybe mostly Sam’s, actually.

It just feels weird not fighting back. Letting go. Letting go of Sam and trusting—begging in silence—that he’ll still be there when Dean looks up.

“It’s gonna take some time to get used to, okay?” He closes his eyes. “Just—just give me some time.”

“Thank you,” Sam says again, patting Dean’s shoulder.

“But I’m not changin’ my last name,” he grumbles.

“Nobody said you had to.” Sam purses his lips thoughtfully. “Cas doesn’t even have a last name. I mean legally, technically, but—”

“Dean Novak is a dumb fucking name,” he says, right before he’s struck with the actual implications of the place this conversation has moved. “And—and who says me and Cas are gettin’ hitched?”

Right as he says it, he realizes: There it is. That’s the thing. All this wedding talk. His stomach churns, not totally unpleasantly.

“You just—” Sam flaps a finger at him, one eyebrow raised. “You’re the one who—okay. Never mind.”

Marrying Cas. Okay. It’s not like the thought doesn’t occur to him a few times a week ever since they started talking about Cas’s last name; the call comes from that part of him that wants more, always more. But they can’t, right? They can’t. Well, maybe they could. But they can’t. And anyway, why would they? Things are fine as they are. And weddings are so—they’re so _much_. Having to stand in front of everybody and talk about how you feel, and then everyone knowing how you feel, even though, okay, the point of a wedding is that everybody already knows how you feel—he doesn’t want anybody to know how he feels about Cas. That’s just for them.

He realizes with a start that actually he wants everybody to know how he feels about Cas. Or at least he wants to want that. It’s what Cas deserves. Somebody who’s proud to love him. And it’s not like Dean isn’t proud to love him—he is.

He clears his throat. When he catches Sam looking at him, he nods his head towards the kitchen. Sam’s eyes go a little wider, and he tilts his head forward, as if to ask a question, and for a second Dean can’t figure out what the fuck Sam is trying to ask, and then he realizes. And he doesn’t know quite how to answer. So he shrugs.

Just behind the eyes, Sam appears to pass through all the stages of grief simultaneously, which isn’t Dean’s problem. Sam can think what he wants. Dean, meanwhile, is gripped with an instant and fanatical urge to get his shit together for Cas. Not necessarily to marry him; he doesn’t know if he there’s yet. But he wants to be better, which is a realization he’s been having more and more often.

Eileen peeks her head around the kitchen doorway.

“Anybody want coffee?”

“Actually,” Dean says when Cas peeks around the doorway as well, “maybe we should get going.”

Everybody looks at him, a little tense, a little worried.

“Just tired,” he says, holding up his hands. “Got some processing to do. But it’s all good.”

He feels Sam exhale ten metric tons of tension when he walks by and claps him on the shoulder, and Cas’s eyes follow him as he gives Eileen another quick hug.

“I’m really happy for y’all,” he says, looking her right in the eyes. “I am.”

She nods, smiling, and says, “That’s good. Because if you made Sam feel bad, I was going to kill you in your sleep.”

“I believe you,” Dean says fondly, just a little active terror rising in his spine.

In the car on the way home, Cas gazes as Dean with unfettered affection, like he’s done something good. He hasn’t. He starts to sweat a little under the pressure, says, “What?”

“I’m proud of you, Dean. I know that was a difficult conversation, and you handled it well.” He doesn’t even blink.

“I mean—” Dean says. He wants to wave Cas off, tell him it’s nothing to be proud of, that actually it’s embarrassing that he almost reacted so badly, that he’s been _reacting badly_ for most of his life, and a part of him still kind of wants to turn back around and give Sam a piece of his mind. He clears his throat again. “You heard all that?”

“I’m only referring to the parts I was present for.”

“You were just in the kitchen. You tellin’ me you couldn’t hear everything I was saying?”

“Eileen and I happened to be engaged in scintillating conversation,” Cas says, eyes glittering.

It’s so sly and offhanded that Dean almost asks what they were talking about, but he knows Cas won’t tell him even if he does. Instead, he says, “You know sign language that well?”

“Angels are proficient in all languages, Dean.”

“Yeah, but you’re not an angel anymore. You still got that shit on lock?”

Cas shrugs. “I’ve retained certain things. Especially since my ASL is still active. My Korean, on the other hand, might be a bit rusty.”

Then they’re back at the house, slumped on the couch, Dean’s head in Cas’s lap as Cas runs a hand through his hair. It’s nice. Dean is still surprised they can fall into positions like this unthinkingly—that he doesn’t seize up every time Cas touches him with genuine tenderness, that he allows himself to be cared for. That Cas wants to care for him.

Over the drone of the B movie playing on the TV, Cas hums thoughtfully—Dean feels it more than hears it.

“What?” he says, rolling onto his back to look up at Cas’s face. Cas tilts his head down to look at Dean, expression unreadable.

He sighs, and then he says, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

The statement strikes fear into Dean’s heart, but he laughs anyway.

“Come on,” he says, and he heaves himself into a sitting position. “Now you have to.” He brushes a hand through Cas’s hair for good measure—an assurance that whatever it is, it’ll be fine. Maybe it won’t. But eventually it will. That’s how it always works.

“Well,” says Cas, looking away from Dean, his hands clutching at his own thighs nervously, “I know you’re disappointed about Sam and Eileen’s nuptials—or, the circumstances surrounding them, I suppose—but maybe…” He stops. Dean’s heart pounds in his chest. “Maybe, if someday, theoretically, we were to get married, we could have the big wedding.”

So Cas is thinking about it too. Getting married. Someday. That’s good, right? That has to be good. But he’s not ready. But it’s good. Right? Someday.

Cas looks up at him, clearly a little bit terrified to be broaching the topic, especially after tonight, and Dean can’t just say nothing, so he leans in for a long, slow kiss, trying to communicate something, anything. He feels Cas relax under his mouth, so maybe it’s working.

“Hey,” he says as he pulls away, and he gives his best rakish smile so Cas knows he’s joking. “I’m not even thinking about marriage until I know what to call you.”

Cas tilts his head into Dean’s hand, unsure.

“I mean like—” It’s weird, maybe, that they haven’t had this conversation—but then again, they’ve been _something_ for over a decade and something plus kissing for just about six months, so maybe not. Is six months of living together a regular point at which you should define the relationship? He really never even had this conversation with Lisa, and he never got to with Cassie. “Boyfriend sounds like we’re… fuckin’… meeting under the bleachers under school, you know?”

“I would gladly meet you under the bleachers,” Cas says, eyes flashing with amusement, and then he adds breezily, obviously comforted by Dean’s reaction, “Another reason to get married. _Husband_ is much more straightforward.”

“Seriously.” He’s still smiling, despite himself, amazed and a little invigorated by how normal it feels to hear Cas say _husband_. “We’ve been together for months and I still don’t know how to talk about you.”

Cas’s whole face softens. “You talk about me?”

“Not a lot.” He says it a little too defensively, and when Cas looks the tiniest bit crestfallen, he clarifies, “That’s my personal business. That’s not the point. Point is, when I _do_ talk about you—I mean, the guys at the garage probably have no clue if you’re my wife or my roommate.”

“I’d think that would be a benefit for you,” Cas says, somewhat carefully.

“Hey,” Dean says again, and he pulls Cas close, feels the warmth of him radiating. “Look. I’m not ashamed of you. Maybe—maybe I used to be, yeah. But that fuckin’ sucked, and I’m over it. And honestly I was never ashamed of you, I was just ashamed of me. Now I’m gonna shout it from the rooftops, all right? Just gotta have something to shout.”

Cas makes a pleased noise and burrows into Dean’s shoulder.

“Significant other,” Cas mumbles. “Companion. Lover?”

Dean experiences a full-body chill. “No way. Uh,” he says, trying desperately to get the ring of _lover_ out of his ears, “special… special friend?”

“Special friend.” Cas pulls away to look Dean in the face. His eyebrows raise just enough to indicate absolutely insane levels of incredulity. “Well, I guess I can’t say you’re wrong. Our friendship has been very special.”

“Shut up, man,” Dean says without thinking, and immediately regrets it.

“Man? Really?”

“I didn’t—”

“It’s fine, _buddy_ ,” Cas says, his tone equal parts bitter and entertained. “I understand completely, _pal_.”

“Okay, I get it, okay.”

Before Dean knows it, he and Cas are laughing so hard they’ve collapsed back down onto the couch, Cas draped over him. When they’ve finally settled down, he says, “Companion? Jesus. We’re not living in the celluloid closet here.”

“Partner?” Cas offers. Dean thinks about it for a second.

“Not the worst, but I think all those years of FBI roleplay gave me a complex about it.”

“So it reminds you of Sam.”

“That’s—” Dean shakes his head. “Let’s not even go there.”

“Perhaps you just need to reframe it,” Cas says thoughtfully. “It’s also like cowboys.”

Dean considers. It _is_ also like cowboys.

“Well,” he says, “I’ll think about it.”

“Maybe,” Cas says, scooting up just enough to lean in close to Dean’s ear, “we can watch _Tombstone_ and you’ll warm up to it.”

Now that sounds like an idea.

* * *

After that, a veil is lifted, and it occurs to Dean that he can go visit Cas at work on their lunch breaks, and vice versa. It doesn’t matter if anyone sees him. They can say _this is my partner_ and then everyone will know the deal and it’ll be normal. Cas probably already talks about Dean all the time.

So a few days later, when he realizes Cas forgot his lunch bag on the kitchen counter, Dean decides he’ll surprise him. When he rolls up into the parking lot, there are two women eating from sack lunches on a bench outside, and they look familiar. He realizes these are the same ladies he saw whispering about Baby at Cas’s interview—and now they’re whispering again, giggling into each other’s ears. Dean puts on his most debonair smile as he steps out of the car. Been a while since he got to lay the charms on anyone but Cas. Not that he intends anything, of course—but he doesn’t want to lose the muscle memory.

As he approaches, they both snap their heads up to look at him, wide-eyed, scooting closer together. They must both be early twenties, barely out of college. One of them giggles again, covering her mouth.

“Hi,” Dean says. He holds up the paper bag. “You ladies know where I can—”

“You’re looking for Cas,” interrupts the one whose mouth remains uncovered. “Yeah, he’s inside. You’re Dean, right?”

Instinctively, his smile widens, but a very slight terror radiates through him. So Cas does talk about him. By name. Everybody in this building knows who he is. He had assumed these girls were trying to flirt with him but maybe—well, maybe it’s something else.

“Oh,” he says. “Cool. Yeah. Well, I’ll just—” He gestures to the door. “Inside.” He spins on his heel to get inside as fast as possible, but turns again at the last moment, giving them a finger-gun and a mouth click. “Thank you.”

Inside, the receptionist, another young lady, eyes him with curiosity.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how warm he feels. Holds up the bag again. “Uh, this is for Cas. Um, Novak. It’s just his lunch, it’s not like, anything weird, you know.” He barks out a nervous laugh and the girl blinks at him before breaking out in a smile.

“You must be Cas’s husband,” she says.

“Uh,” says Dean, “I mean,” and his brain can’t seem to produce an effective argument, so he stops there and laughs again, hoping he comes across as charming instead of desperately weird. “I can just leave this here with you, I don’t mean to interrupt your, uh—” He glances around. “Office… work.”

“No, you’re welcome in!” she chirps, pointing into the next room. “It’s an open floor plan, and Cas’s desk is towards the back, on the left.”

“Back left,” Dean says, backing away. “Got it. Thanks.”

“Everybody will be so excited to finally meet you,” she says, and immediately after she closes her mouth tightly, like she’s not sure that was the right thing to say. Well, it wasn’t, but Dean’s too far in it now to panic and leave.

“Emphasis on the _finally_ , I guess,” he mutters, but then he feels like he’s being rude, so he looks up and does yet another weird smile-wave combo that he instantly regrets before he bolts into the adjoining room, throwing another quick “thanks” over his shoulder.

Most of the desks are currently unmanned and there aren’t that many anyway—Dean counts eight. This can’t be everybody, right? He notices a hallway at the back of the room, presumably leading to the other desks and offices, and then his eyes shift slightly left and he sees Cas, diligently focused on whatever it is he’s typing, squinting at the computer screen over his glasses. Dean’s heart does a little jump and he starts heading over, horse blinders on, trying hard not to look around and see if anybody else is looking at him.

He drops Cas’s lunch on the desk and leans over onto his hands.

“Hey,” he says, grinning, as Cas’s line of sight trails from the lunch up to Dean’s face.

“Dean,” Cas says, like he hasn’t seen Dean in weeks. “What a surprise.”

“Forgot your lunch.” He shrugs. “Thought, you know, I could stop by.”

“That’s so thoughtful,” Cas says in the same way he always does when Dean does anything remotely nice for him. It actually makes Dean feel really guilty—if Cas is really that surprised when Dean does nice things for him, what does that say about Dean? “Thank you, darling.”

Before Dean has a proper chance to react to being called “darling” in public for the first time, Cas is standing, coming around the desk. Grabbing Dean’s hands. Dean feels his entire face flush. For a second, Cas tilts his head at him in concern—then his eyes widen for just a second and he lets go, steps back, leans against the desk. It’s casual in a way Dean didn’t really know Cas was capable of, and Dean knows he’s only doing it because he knows Dean so well—knows Dean is still pretty afraid to do this in public, no matter how small that public is.

But then Dean remembers his fucking solemn daily vow to do better, to do better for Cas—in general, but especially for Cas—and this isn’t doing better. This is letting Cas handle his shit for him, yet again. So he leans in tentatively, giving Cas a quick peck on the cheek before he loses his nerve.

Cas blinks at him in surprise. “Oh,” he says, holding back a smile. Then, “Do you want a tour?”

“I don’t really know if I’m supposed to—” Dean starts, but then he realizes that’s a ridiculous excuse, given that Cas is the one offering. “You know what? Yeah. Sure. Show me around, big shot.”

Cas blushes at that, red rising up his neck and around his ears, looking about 40% bashful and 60% something way less office-appropriate. Dean’s still amazed every time Cas demonstrates a physical reaction to anything—it’s so human. He forgets, all the time, that Cas is human. Then again, when Cas was an angel, Dean often forgot he _wasn’t_ human. For so long, he’s just been Cas. But Dean can make him blush now. Dean can make him do a lot of things.

Cas turns on his heel before Dean knows it, and Dean suddenly remembers, right, yeah, public place. Which he himself was being weird about not two minutes ago. Maybe the distraction is a good sign, a sign that he’s getting over whatever stupid hang-ups he has—but then again, he definitely shouldn’t be tempted to suck Cas’s dick in the office bathroom right now. There’s a fine line.

Dean is still processing this line of thought when he realizes that Cas has led him to a real, actual person, who is taking off his headphones and smirking like he knows everything Dean is thinking. Okay—maybe it’s not smirking. Maybe it’s just smiling. Dean unclenches his hand.

“Dean, this is Isaac.”

“Pleasure,” says Isaac, holding out his hand, and Dean shakes it. Finally. A normal handshake between dudes. That he can do. “Cas speaks highly of you, so it’s cool to meet you.”

Dean still doesn’t know what to say to that, just chokes out a laugh and nods. Cas rubs his shoulder.

“The interns are out to lunch,” Cas says, pointing to a cluster of smaller desks, “but I’m sure you’ll meet them later.”

“I, uh, I met a couple girls out there—”

“That must have been Emily and Safiya. They like to take their lunch outside.” Somewhat conspiratorially, he adds, “Sometimes I join them. It’s lovely.”

“They seem like a hoot and a half,” Dean adds uselessly.

Cas just smiles serenely, as Cas is wont to do lately.

“This is the water cooler,” he adds, pointing to the water cooler.

Most everybody on the main floor is out to lunch, it seems, so Cas takes him back into the hallway, where there are a few offices. Cas knocks on one of the open doors and, inside, Dean sees a small figure with a mop of purple hair.

“Is this your guy?”

Dean hears the voice before he can tell exactly where it’s coming from, and then realizes the person in question has moved to the doorway so quickly that he barely registered the motion. On the desk, he sees bobbleheads; on the wall, a _Dune_ poster and a yellow-and-purple flag that Dean maybe vaguely recognizes, but can’t place.

“This is my guy,” Cas says, obviously bursting with pride behind a polite veneer. “Dean, this is—”

“Ren.” Ren holds out a hand. “I’m the IT department.”

“Is this the Charlie one?” Dean says to Cas, reaching out a hand to shake Ren’s, and Ren raises an eyebrow. For a second, Dean thinks maybe it’s rude to address Cas about somebody who’s right there in front of them, but then he realizes that Ren just did the exact same thing to him, so he doesn’t feel as bad.

“Yes,” Cas says, and he turns to Ren to clarify: “You remind us of an old friend. A beloved friend. She was also invested in computers and bobbleheads.”

Talking about Charlie is like talking about Bobby: Technically she’s alive, but it’s not her. She’s fine—she’s great—but she’s not _their_ Charlie. She made that clear early on. So hearing Cas say “was” strikes a chord that Dean can’t totally identify.

And then it hits him: He does know that flag. Charlie, real Charlie, showed it to him once. It’s one of the gender ones, right? She’d quizzed him on them. She always pushed him on the gay stuff—learning the right terms, the pronouns, the flags. He’d resented it a little at the time, insisted not much of it would ever apply to him, but now—well. She knew what she was doing, he guesses.

Ren and Cas are chatting genially when Dean snaps out of whatever fugue state he entered, and he manages a friendly goodbye when Cas tugs him away to the next doorway.

“Seriously, Cas, text me if you wanna try D&D,” Ren calls after them. “I think you’d like it.”

“D&D?” Dean snorts fondly. They really do have some things in common with Charlie. “Nerd.”

“I’d think you’d be amenable to it, given your interest in science fiction and fantasy,” Cas says, and Dean opens his mouth to protest that he’s not _that_ big of a nerd, even though he probably is, but Cas is already knocking on another door.

Behind door number whatever is Janine from accounting, who is maybe a little too excited to meet Dean.

“We’ve all heard so much about you,” she says, almost breathlessly. “I said to myself, you know, _when_ will we get to meet this mysterious Dean? Cas says you’re very private, and goodness knows Cas is private too, but I imagine you two have had such an interesting life together, and I would just be over the moon to hear all about it.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, too overwhelmed to muster up the stores of charm he usually has in spades for old ladies, but Janine doesn’t seem to notice. “Absolutely.”

Next up is the boss, Bridget, who Cas introduces with some fancy title that Dean doesn’t quite register. She looks kind of stone-cold—sharp features, hair pulled back—but seems nice enough. After a little small talk, she drops the bombshell that makes Dean think he probably should have just left Cas’s lunch at the front desk.

She says: “You know, Dean, my husband and I will be hosting a Halloween party for the team soon, partners are welcome, and we would love it if Cas brought you along.”

“Oh,” says Dean, “I, uh,” and Cas touches his forearm gently.

“Dean would never pass up an opportunity to wear a costume,” Cas says, which is true, but hey. “We’d be delighted.”

A few more pleasantries and then Cas herds him into the tiny office kitchen. Before Dean can say anything at all, Cas grabs him by the shoulders and looks him square in the face.

“Socialization will be good for you,” he says decisively. Sam would definitely agree. Dean has no legitimate protest besides _but I don’t want to have friends_ , which would be stupid to say out loud, so he doesn’t.

“Anyway,” Cas says, gesturing around, “this is where I generally keep my lunch, when I don’t forget it.” He gives Dean a quick smooch, since no one is around, and Dean feels the small tide of shame simultaneously with the thrill of getting away with something. “Thank you again, Dean.”

“Any time. But I’m sure you would have ended up going out to eat with one of your super cool coworkers.”

Cas shakes his head, looking a little sheepish.

“Well,” he says, “I probably just wouldn’t have eaten.”

Dean looks Cas right in the face. Sometimes it’s hard to tell when he’s kidding, or trying to kid, but this he means.

“Hey,” he says, gently grabbing Cas’s chin to make direct eye contact. “You gotta eat, Cas.”

A pause. “I know.”

Before he can stop himself, Dean adds, “God, a couple months ago I couldn’t _keep_ you from eating. What happened?”

“I know, I know.” Cas sighs, looking vaguely miserable in a way that he used to look all the time, but hasn’t very much lately. It’s almost jarring to see the expression now. “I just—when I make a mistake, I feel I need to bear the consequences.”

“Conse—” Dean stops, gathers himself. This hurts in places he’d almost forgotten existed. The line of thinking checks out, he supposes, given Cas’s upbringing—not to mention everything Dean put him through—but for a sandwich? He moves the hand on Cas’s chin to his jaw, strokes the side of Cas’s face with his thumb for a second, just looking at him. “Cas, angel, you don’t need to do that, okay? You don’t have to punish yourself for stuff like that. Just fuckin’—text me and I’ll bring you the lunch. Or I’ll take you out. Or just go buy something, just—no point in punishing yourself for shit that doesn’t matter, okay?”

Cas just nods. Dean pets his hair, repeats more firmly, “Okay?”

Finally, Cas says, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Dean says again, and when Cas smiles at him, Dean gives him a kiss on the forehead. “Good.”

As Cas is walking Dean out, another older guy is walking in. Cas’s face lights up when he sees him.

“Dean, this is Gregory.”

Gregory smirks, sauntering up. This one is definitely a smirk. Dean is sure of it.

“Charmed,” the guy says, “I’m sure.”

“Gregory has told me a great deal about gay culture,” Cas says, with absolutely no clue as to why it might be weird for a nearly fifty-year-old gay man not to know anything about gay culture. “He’s an excellent resource and a—what did you say about Emily and Safiya? A hoot and a half.”

Dean just stares, feeling warmth rise on the back of his neck.

“And a half?” Gregory raises an eyebrow. “Color me flattered.” Before either of them can reply, Gregory says, “You’ve got a sheltered one on your hands, Dean. The church really did a number on him.”

“You can say that again,” is all Dean can say to that. Right. That’s the backstory they decided on for Cas. Not too far from the truth, all things considered. Cas just nods, like he and Gregory have had this conversation before.

“But he’s sweet and a quick learner. We adore having him around. You’re a lucky man. And—” He nods appraisingly. “Looks like Cas is pretty lucky too.”

“Sorry, I’m taken,” he says, maybe a little too fast.

Gregory and Cas both laugh. Dean also laughs, albeit less convincingly. Is he… jealous? Is that what this is? Jesus.

“I hear you’re also somewhat new to the fray.” When Dean just blinks at him, Gregory clarifies. “Late bloomer. Recently out, hon.”

“Oh,” says Dean. “Yeah. I mean. Yes.”

“Uh huh,” says Gregory. He sits back in his desk chair. “Well, I say this to Cas all the time, but the offer stands to you as well, Dean: If you two ever feel lacking in community, I’m happy to help however I can.”

“Thank you, Gregory,” Cas says, and he gives a little wave as they walk away.

“Since when do you wave like that?” Dean asks, eyes narrowed, as they exit the building.

“I’ll be right back, Kristi,” Cas says to the receptionist instead of answering. Then he shrugs. “I develop new mannerisms all the time. I think it’s neat.”

“Hm.” Dean looks up, sees that the girls are still on the bench, staring.

“Hello, Emily,” Cas says kindly. “Hello, Safiya. Would you give us a moment?”

“Sure, Cas,” says the one that might be Emily. “Nice to meet you, Dean. We like your car.”

As soon as they stand and turn towards the door, they crack up, clutching at each other, trying to be quiet as they hurry inside. What the fuck is up with that? Do they really like the car or not?

“Their youthful ardor is contagious,” Cas says, watching after them fondly.

“Lots of gay people work here,” Dean says, completely powerless to prevent it from coming out of his mouth.

“Yes.” Cas raises an eyebrow.

“I’m just saying,” says Dean, “just saying I’m glad that you—it seems like a really, uh, welcoming environment.”

“Dean,” says Cas, eyes narrowing, face contorting slowly into the expression that Dean knows best out of all of Cas’s expressions. “You’re not exempt from people being gay. We’re together.”

Dean stutters and stammers around a response that doesn’t come.

“Although I don’t mean to apply a label to you that you feel doesn’t suit you,” Cas says thoughtfully. “We’ve never discussed the intricacies of your sexual identity beyond how it applies to me. I just mean to suggest that you’re obviously not heterosexual—"

“Obviously,” Dean chokes out.

“—given our relationship, since despite the fact that I wasn’t really a man for most of my existence, nor have I ever truly been a woman.” While Dean continues to search for words that elude him, he adds, “Also, you’ve had plenty of queer friends, so I don’t see why my work situation is so surprising.”

“Plenty,” says Dean, “I mean, define plenty.”

“Charlie. Claire and Kaia. Me,” he says, looking at Dean with an expression that demands, _hey, remember when you said we were “special friends”?_ “Crowley. Shall I go on?”

“I get it,” says Dean, though that has to be everybody, right? Not like he hasn’t wondered about Jody and Donna on occasion. And shit, okay, there’s Jesse and Cesar too, but he doesn’t talk to them very often. And—fuck. “Fine. Point made.”

Cas just stands there, rubbing Dean’s arm for a moment. Then he leans in slowly, as if to ask permission, and Dean closes the distance. A real kiss in public, during the day, where people they know could theoretically see them. Nobody’s around, sure, but it feels like a mile marker—something they’ve been working towards.

“You’re worried about how people are perceiving you,” Cas says against his mouth. “More than usual.”

Dean huffs. “Guess so.”

“It’s okay, Dean.” He pulls away slightly, but leans his forehead back in, thinks carefully before speaking again. “My colleagues all like you very much.”

“Even Gregory?”

“Especially Gregory.”

“Well,” Dean says, finally smiling, “good.” He decides not to push it. Instead, he glances at his watch. “Shit, I’d better get back to the garage.” He gives Cas one more quick kiss, says, “Love you. See you later.”

“I love you,” Cas says, serious as a funeral, completely incapable of a casual bye-love-you, as Dean gets into the car.

“And eat your fuckin’ lunch,” Dean says, popping his head out the window.

Cas smiles. He says, “I will.”


End file.
